Darkvision (8 page)

Warian waved to catch the woman’s attention, but she turned and moved down an elevated path, and a bridge intervened as the rickshaw continued to move forward.

“Say,” Warian called to the driver who plodded along ahead of him. “Do you see many people who have crystal like mine?” Warian tapped his arm even though the driver didn’t turn. “Like my crystal arm?”

The driver shrugged without turning, and said, “Sure. Plangents. Too rich for my blood.”

“Plangents?”

“Yeah.” The driver craned his neck to fix Warian with an assessing eye. “Like you.” The driver turned his attention back to his path.

Warian searched his memory, but came up blank.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been gone from Vaelan for most of the last five years. When I left, I was the only one who had such a… um, crystal prosthesis.”

“Hmph,” the driver snorted, and turned down a high but narrow alley. “You’re in good company now, eh? Datharathi’s got the goods. They’ll make you ‘stronger, faster, smarter— better!’ if you got the gold.”

Warian shook his head and said, “But this prosthesis is worse than a real arm. It’s slow, weak, and I can’t feel a thing through it! I have this arm because I lost my real one in an accident. Who’d want that?” But, indeed, what of the flash of potency, the reason he’d returned to Vaelan in the first place?

“Well,” the driver responded, chuckling. “You got a bad deal. The plangents I’ve seen are none of that—you put a plangent against me in a pulling contest, and even though I’ve pulled this rickshaw every day for thirteen years, a plangent’d beat me every time, if he had a brand new overhaul.”

“What’s this word you keep saying—plangent? Anyone who gets a prosthesis is a plangent?”

“Well, yeah, that’s what we call ‘em. But from what I heard, you can’t just replace an arm, a leg, or an eye. They replace stuff on the inside, too, stuff we can’t see. The plangents—they’re supposed to live longer—they’re their own thing now. A new thing. A plangent.” The driver snorted, then yelled at another porter who edged in front of him at an intersection.

Warian sat back. Uncle Xaemar and Grandfather Shaddon had been busy. Warian was confident that the crystal of his arm stopped at his shoulder. Since he’d been given his fake arm, they must have refined and expanded the technique. And improved it—no one would give up the limb they were born with for something worse, like Warian’s. Well, it was usually worse. Did all the plangents enjoy the strength and speed he’d accidentally discovered? A scary thought! He didn’t know enough, clearly.

All the more reason to seek out Eined first and get an unadulterated account from her before being propagandized by his elders.

Eined Datharathi lived in a quiet tenement in the upscale West Gardens district. Those who lived in West Gardens paid into a fund that employed spellcasting and sword-bearing sentries to make certain that things stayed quiet and safe. Thus, Warian was doubly surprised when he arrived to find Eined’s door open, and her abode in the process of being robbed.

The awful crash of breaking glass and the gruff sound of men’s voices echoed from within, confounding Warian for only a moment. He dashed through the entry passage yelling, “Eined!”

The entry parlor contained a single intruder, who whirled as Warian came upon him. The intruder, dressed all in gray and sporting greasy hair, held a metal prying bar clutched in one hand. All around the man, evidence of ransacking littered the room. Mirrors that once graced the walls were shattered on the floor. Carpets were pulled up, drapes were torn down, and chairs lay broken.

“Where is Eined?”

“She ain’t here, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll shove off, too,” said the man with the metal rod.

Warian didn’t know what was good for him. He willed his prosthesis, “Go!” but it remained as dull as ever. So he punched the intruder with his flesh-and-blood hand. The man’s head rocked back.

“Who are you? Where’s my sister?” demanded Warian.

The man shook his head, rubbing the back of his hand across the cut on his lip. He said, “That was a mistake. Now I got to feed you this!”

The intruder smacked the iron bar into his open palm, leering at Warian. But he didn’t attack. Instead, he glanced down the hallway to the sitting room and yelled, “Hey! Get your butts up front! We got a visitor.”

A voice called from farther in the house—a man’s voice, not Eined’s. “What you talkin’ about, Revi?”

The man facing Warian, apparently named Revi, yelled back. “Just get your ugly mugs out here, will ya? We got trouble—a plangent.”

“I’m not…” Warian trailed off. If they thought he was a plangent, maybe he could frighten them away.

In a more assertive tone, Warian told the man, “Put that bar down if you don’t want to be the one who chokes on it.” Warian raised his prosthesis and pointed it directly at his foe.

Revi’s eyes widened slightly and he backed up a step, but then the man’s friends rushed into the room. One yelled, “Plangents are tough, but not tough enough for one to stand against five!”

“I’m warning you …” proclaimed Warian, feeling foolish.

Greasy-haired Revi swung the pry bar like a sword at Warian’s head. Warian’s arm was still extended from his failed threat, and he needed only to raise and angle it just slightly to deflect the blow, which he felt only dully through his shoulder.

One of Revi’s friends simultaneously kicked Warian in the stomach, something Warian wasn’t prepared for. He stumbled back, and two more rushed up and easily grabbed his arms, one on each.

“Hold him!” directed Revi. “Watch his implant!”

Warian struggled, but as always, his prosthesis was about half as strong as a real arm. Another two goons grabbed him, three on his crystal arm.

“We got ‘im,” one grunted. “He don’t seem so tough.”

Warian desperately tried to recall—what had he done to trigger the arm the first time? He’d been in that tavern, and what’s-his-name had gotten him around the throat … he had started to black out. Darkness had threaded his vision, and he was reminded of the dark tendrils he’d noticed within his prosthesis.

“Look at me!” yelled Revi. The man’s lip was swelling and blood trickled a red streak down his chin.

Instead, Warian concentrated on his memory. If he didn’t figure it out, the lights might go out for good …

Wait—light! What was it about light? As he’d been choked, darkness had pushed in on all sides—he’d mentally tried to push the darkness back, to illuminate it. He’d been pretty muddled as his brain starved for air, and had gotten a little confused on which darkness to illuminate—his tunneling vision or the black hazing in his prosthesis.

Revi wound up with the iron bar. Warian concentrated on the threads of darkness in his arm, willing them to shrivel away, to light up, to be revealed in the clarifying light of the sun.

The prosthesis flashed into bonfire brilliance, lilac in hue. Sensation shot from his shoulder to his crystalline fingertips, as if transformed from an inert sculpture to a live arm, or something that felt even more vital than flesh.

It was alive again, as it had been at the tavern in Dambrath.

His captors’ grip on his arm suddenly seemed as light as tissue paper around a name day present. Lavender luminance lit their faces as they stared at him, alarm slowly overtaking what had been naked glee and the anticipation of a beating. They seemed caught and slowed in the syrupy radiance.

Warian laughed and gave his artificial arm an experimental shake.

He was free. The three on his left arm, his crystal prosthesis, scattered a few paces, yelling warnings with strangely deep, distorted voices. Warian lifted his left arm high, triumphant. He made a fist, thinking to scare those who’d grabbed him with an impressive threat.

The iron bar clipped him on the forehead and pain sawed through his brain. All the quickness in the world couldn’t protect him from inattention. He’d seen the brutal end of the bar at the last instant and managed to flinch away, just enough so his head hadn’t shattered like an egg… he hoped. It sure hurt, though.

Dazed, Warian went down on one knee. He cradled his throbbing head with his right hand. His aggressors moved in, thinking to fall on him, Revi in the vanguard, the bloodied metal bar raised high to finish the job.

Without standing, Warian reached with his left hand and grabbed Revi’s lead leg just below the knee. He could feel Revi’s muscles and bones through the crystal. He squeezed. The muscles and bones pulped in his hand like rotten fruit.

Revi dropped sluggishly to the floor, screaming and clutching at his ruined leg. The iron bar spun free, then clattered dully to the floor.

The downed man’s friends failed to grasp Warian’s strength and speed—they continued to move forward. Or perhaps they didn’t have a chance to react in the brief interval Warian allowed them.

He stood up, still rubbing his head with his right hand. The eyes of his attackers had trouble following Warian’s movements. Good.

Warian strode to the fellow who stood nearest the entry hall, grabbed him, and threw him out the doorway. Ditto for the man’s nearest friend, who had just enough time to scream and try to run, though it did him no good. He sailed, flailing, through the air, and was gone.

The other two, seeing their plan going horribly awry, turned to dash back the way they’d come, farther within the tenement. A few quick strides let Warian catch the hindmost. He plucked the man right off his feet. The weight of Warian’s quarry was astonishingly little. The man’s legs kicked, and he yelled in protest. As if he held a doll, he bumped the man’s head against the ceiling. The man went limp, and Warian dropped him.

Who’s next? he wondered.

Fatigue ambushed him.

The light in his prosthesis guttered out. Dullness flooded the crystal, and the world jittered back to its natural timeframe.

Warian stumbled and nearly fell flat on his face. Exhaustion hammered him. He sucked breath like he’d just finished a marathon race. His living arm trembled as he used it to support himself against the wall. Now that he’d returned to normal perception, he understood what the men were yelling. “He’s killing us! Gods, he’s killing us!”

Warian didn’t have the strength to protest. Hurting badly, yes. Killing? No. At least, he hadn’t tried to kill anyone. He looked at his left arm again. It looked as it always had, save for the dark tendrils at its core. Were they growing? Hard to tell. But one thing was certain—he’d managed to consciously activate the extraordinary new strength his prosthesis harbored. If he could consciously trigger it once, he was confident he could do it again. But should he? The way nausea struggled against his exhaustion, twice as bad as the first time…. If he called on the arm’s strength a third time, would the aftermath multiply again? The wall was no longer enough to support him. He slid down to a squat, still leaning on the wall, and studied his feet. They seemed strangely far away.

A man appeared from down the inner passage—not one of the toughs who’d failed to overcome Warian. The newcomer wore the tailored black and gray robe of a businessman. His assertive posture, wiry frame, and dark but thinning hair were all too familiar to Warian.

It was Uncle Zel.

Zeltaebar Datharathi, who sat with his uncles on the family council, was a schemer, a dealmaker, a master of disguise, and a self-proclaimed scoundrel. Warian and Zel never had much to do with each other.

“Nephew, is that you?” asked Zel, squinting in disbelief. “What in the name of the Ten Dark Gods are you doing back in town? And why are you killing my men?”

The destrier flitted across moonlit hills, its stone feet pounding out a tempo that mimicked the world’s heartbeat.

Kiril roused from her dozing trance when Thormud called a halt. Blinking, she gazed around at the monotonous plain, at low hills and rocky ridges silhouetted in the silvery distance. Nothing seemed amiss.

“Why are we stopping?”

“I am uneasy,” Thormud responded. “Another prognostication is in order.”

“Really? In the middle of the night? I thought we traveled by night to avoid the heat of the day and unfortunate observation.”

“The same principle holds for conducting arduous prognostications, Kiril. I prefer to undertake such exertions during night’s cool and shrouding darkness.”

Kiril looked around again. The destrier had stopped atop a low, smooth bluff.

“I’ll tell you where to put your ‘shrouding darkness,’ ” she murmured as she slipped off the stone destrier’s back. The wait while Thormud performed his ritual promised to be excruciatingly boring.

Thormud let the elemental mount bend low before he dismounted. As soon as the dwarf’s feet touched down, he moved to the center of the bluff and began scrawling in the earth with his rod. Kiril recognized the preliminary chicken scratches as standard geomancer preparations for “magical surveillance and interrogation of the mineral bones of the world,” as the dwarf had once described it. Bah.

Kiril sighed and paced out a perimeter. She always hated waking from trance—her thoughts were too clear and connected. At those times, the temptation to draw Angul was worst—she wanted to drown her questions and uncertainties in the blade’s overwhelming certitude. It was nearly a compulsion.

Nothing the verdigris god couldn’t fix. She gulped down a burning shot and gasped. As the fire settled into her stomach, Angul’s lure faded into low background noise, as always. The trick was to desensitize her mind. His call couldn’t penetrate her alcohol haze.

She finished her circuit around the periphery of the bluff. A gauzy film of cloud partially obscured the moon, but her eyes were sharp in the dark. She spied nothing to threaten the dwarf’s impromptu magical rite. Kiril found a likely rock and sat, gazing at Thormud.

The geomancer pulled a chest from the destrier’s back. From it he produced various vials filled with mineral salts and viscous oils. These ingredients, along with his selenite rod, were familiar implements of high geomancy. Kiril barely paid attention—if a branch of magic existed that was slower and less exciting than geomancy, she hadn’t seen it or heard of its disrepute.