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  City In the Sky

  Glynn Stewart

  Copyright 2015

  All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons— living or dead— is entirely coincidental.

  Cover image copyright 2015 Jack Giesen, with photography by Arun Kulshreshtha via Wikimedia Commons

  One

  Erik Tarverro waited silently in the Guild Hall of the Smith's Guild. The hardwood seat and simple decorations, fitting for an artisan's guild, did little to alleviate his tension. Every so-often, his hand drifted down to the sword at his belt and caressed the hilt. His grandfather, recovered now from his long illness, had borne an identical weapon into the Tribunal Room an hour ago. Combined with several other pieces, it was to stand as proof of his readiness to be qualified as a Master of the Guild.

  In a gesture too controlled to be a lunge, Erik came to his feet and began to pace. He'd tried not to get his hopes up, but surely this time they'd have to accept that he was, indeed, good enough to be a Master. He was a better swordsmith than half the Masters in the city.

  His pacing brought him to a polished shield hung on the wall and he paused, examining himself in it. It was his eyes, he knew. His eyes, with the slant and dark color that his father's Aeraid blood had bequeathed to him, that marked him as a half-breed. He was short for a human, but not unreasonably so. It was his eyes and face that marked him as the child of an Aeraid. The jet-black hair that he'd drawn back into a ponytail only accentuated the difference.

  Erik turned away from his image in the shield with a muttered curse. His father had been as good a man as any of them, for all that he was not human. Who were they to decide that his blood made his son less worthy?

  The door to the Tribunal Room creaked open and Erik turned to face it. Five men, dressed in the formal robes of Master Smiths, walked out of the Room, ignoring Erik as they turned towards the back of the Hall, where no mere journeyman could enter.

  That was it then. If there had been any chance, they'd have invited him in to speak for himself, not simply left. The grim expression on his grandfather's face when old Byron followed them out merely confirmed it. Erik met the old man's gaze, and Byron shook his head.

  Three times now, they'd rejected him. Not on the basis of skill – even as a journeyman, people recommended him to those looking for good swords – but merely due to his blood. No matter how many of the city's smiths acknowledged him, it always seemed that his Mastery Tribunals were made up of the ones that held his father's race against him.

  “Come on Erik,” Byron said finally. “Let's go home.”

  Erik nodded sharply, and slowly released the handle of his sword.

  The fading afternoon sun glittered off the blade of the sword as Erik ran through his exercises. The sword hummed through a complex series of parries, cuts and thrusts, inflicting unspeakable damage on empty air.

  Why wouldn't they just accept him as a Master? He was good enough, there was no argument anywhere about that. At least one of the smiths who'd voted today had sent business his way in the past. He was the most respected journeyman smith in the city, but as long as he remained a journeyman, he couldn't open his own shop. He was left working out of his grandfather's shop.

  He snarled and spun, thrusting the sword into the 'stomach' of the dummy in the quiet training yard. Even money didn't help. He was good enough that he had enough of that, but bribing the Tribunal was nearly impossible, even if it was likely to do any good.

  There were simply too many Masters in the Guild who would not allow a 'mere' half-blood to pollute the 'purity' of their organization. As long as any Tribunal included at least three of them, and there were enough that that was almost certain, he would never have a chance.

  He heard the shop bell ring, but he ignored the noise as he slowly and methodically hacked the dummy into very, very small pieces.

  Byron hurried into the front of the shop, mentally cursing himself for forgetting that Erik wouldn't be covering the store this afternoon as he normally did. Stepping up to the counter, he shed the heavy leather gloves he'd been wearing in the forge and looked up at the customer.

  “How can I help you?” he asked automatically, before the man's appearance truly sank in. Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Byron half-froze at the sight of the man.

  The stranger was tall, nearly six feet, unusually tall for a human, but bore the same arched cheekbones that marked the Aeradi. He lacked their slanted eyes, however, but both his eyes and hair appeared jet-black. He was clad in a doublet of dark maroon velvet that had probably cost as much as a decent horse. Just about everything about the man screamed first 'rich' – and then 'Draconan.' The eyes and height declared him a member of the mountain-bound race that bred and flew the great dragons.

  He smiled, and Byron hid a shudder. That smile looked like it belonged on something with scales and claws, not a man.

  “I am in need of some… specialized equipment,” the man said softly. “I have been told that you have a journeyman here – your grandson, I believe? – who may be able to make it for me. Is my information correct?”

  “My grandson is indeed a journeyman,” Byron said. “I am not certain if he will be able to help you, however – he is primarily a sword smith.”

  “So I was told,” the Draconan replied with a nod. “I am in the correct place then?”

  Byron shrugged carefully. “I would suppose so. If you will wait here, I can get him for you.”

  “That would be satisfactory,” the man agreed. He selected a chair and sat on the edge of it, looking as if every nerve and muscle in his body was ready to spring into action, and yet remaining perfectly still.

  Byron managed to hide another shudder as he left the shop, heading to the yard where he figured Erik would be. It took only a few steps towards the yard for him to be able to hear the hard thuds of steel on wood. When he stepped out into the open yard at the heart of the compound he'd built around his house, smithy and shop, he found that his grandson had completely demolished the straw dummy he normally practiced on, and had proceeded to attack the heavy wooden pole it was attached to.

  The pole was six feet high and nearly four inches thick. Normally Byron wouldn't have thought that you could cut through it with a sword, at least not without having to repeatedly sharpen the sword, but the evidence suggested that Erik hadn't really cared. The top third or so of the pole lay on the hard-packed dirt ground, and the top half of the remainder was scarred by sword-strikes.

  Erik was sitting on the ground, eyeing the sword which was now stuck deep into the pole about a foot down from its new top. Sweat dripped from the young man's brow, falling onto the already soaked fabric of his tunic.

  “Enjoying yourself?” Byron asked his grandson.

  “No, not really,” Erik replied, his eyes not leaving the sword. “It did help with my mood, but I think I'm going to need to re-make that sword.”

  “You have four others just like it,” Byron observed.

  “Three others,” Erik corrected, gesturing across the yard.

  Byron looked where his grandson pointed and saw another sword, from the case next to the one he'd taken into the Tribunal earlier today. Erik had apparently decided to prove the theory that you could break a sword by stepping on it while holding it at the right angle. He'd succeeded, and the broken pieces of the blade shone dully in the sun.

  “Ah,” was all Byron said. “Are you recovered enough to be civil? I have a man asking for you in the shop.”

  Erik considered for a moment. “Who?”

  “Not a regular customer,” Byron replied. “Draconan, rich.”

  “Not a regular customer indeed,” Erik said softly, his calm voice belying the destruction around him. He rose smoothly to his feet with the grace of the trained swordsman he was. “I'll see him.”

  Erik unbelted his sword and left it at the back entrance into the shop part of the smithy. It was hardly necessary for him to wander around his own home armed, and he felt it seemed threatening to the customers if he spoke to them while wearing a sword. Besides, if he needed a weapon, there were half a dozen swords on the wall in the store – hung there as samples for customers to peruse.

  He entered the shop and took a moment to look the customer over. Like Byron had said, he was definitely a Draconan. He shared the same darkened eyes and hair, and arched high cheekbones, that Erik himself bore as the legacy of his Aeraid father, but stood far taller than his father's race.

  At the sound of Erik's entrance, the man came easily to his feet and Erik changed his last assessment. The Draconan was taller than Erik, but he was quite short for a Draconan. With a little effort, he could likely have passed almost unnoticed among a group of humans.

  “I am Erik Tarverro,” Erik said quietly. “You said that you were looking for me?”

  “You may call me Rade,” the stranger replied with a sharp nod. “I am looking to have some very specialized items made f
or me.”

  “Whether or not I can help you depends on the items,” Erik replied. “I am primarily a sword smith, and my grandfather would likely be a better person to speak to for general tools.”

  Rade shook his head. “I am looking for a sword smith.” He reached inside his doublet and removed a package, wrapped in dark crimson velvet. He unwrapped the velvet and laid three items on the counter. “Look at these,” he instructed.

  Erik did. Two of the items were identical, daggers with short and very thin blades. They were stilettos more than daggers, actually. Their handles were small, just enough to be held in a hand, no more.

  The third item was broken into two pieces. It had been a rather larger version of the stilettos – a poniard. However, the blade had broken off close to the hilt, rendering the weapon useless. Erik picked up the sheared-off blade and examined it closely. The metal had an odd white tinge to it that he'd rarely seen before.

  “This is sky steel,” he said flatly.

  “Indeed,” Rade replied. “I need at least eight more daggers, plus two poniards to replace that one. Also, I would like a smallsword, forged to the customary pattern in this city.”

  Erik nodded slowly. The last request, at least, made some sense. Smallswords were a style of rapier that had become quite common in the human cities. They were mostly decorative, but a properly made one was a deadly weapon in expert hands. Erik very much doubted that Rade was anything less than a master.

  “I would also,” Rade finished, “like all of these crystal-forged of sky steel.”

  Erik snapped his head up to meet the man's gaze. He wasn't entirely surprised – sky steel was far superior to any normal steel, but it required the empowered crystals of air magic to forge.

  “I do not have a great deal of experience in crystal-forging,” he said slowly. Something about both this Draconan and the items he wanted made him uncomfortable. “I certainly do not possess the materials, and they are quite expensive.”

  “You are the only smith in this city with any experience,” Rade replied. “Also, unlike every other smith in this city, you have Wind Blood. Without that, the forging would be nearly impossible.”

  Erik nodded to himself. The man was correct. Crystal-forging was sky magic, and while the crystals, once empowered, could be used by anyone, it was far easier for those of the Wind Blood. For something as finicky as the crystal-forging of sky steel, that ease made the difference between the work being impossible, and it being merely difficult.

  And Erik's father had been an Aeraid, of the People of Wind and Wave. He had the blood. The very factor that gave him such difficulty in becoming a Master was exactly what this man needed. And yet… the items the man wanted disturbed him. These were not the weapons of a mercenary or a guard.

  “As for the price of the materials,” Rade continued, disrupting Erik's thoughts, “I am prepared to pay twenty Hellitian gold marks.” That was more than a third of what Erik normally made in a month, and Erik spotted a glint in the Draconan's eyes and realized the man knew this. Before Erik could speak, the man continued, softly, “Up front. With another twenty on completion.”

  Erik inhaled involuntarily. While the materials were likely to be expensive, they weren't that expensive. He'd likely pay for the materials out of the up-front, with several gold left over. The twenty on completion would be pure profit. He couldn't afford to turn the man down.

  “Very well,” he said quietly. “I accept.”

  From the half-smirk that marked the Draconan's face, Erik knew the man had known from the very beginning that Erik couldn't afford to refuse him. The money was good, but there were still many things about this job that worried him.

  “Well?”

  Erik started at the question, then looked up at the speaker. He'd been looking at the samples Rade had provided and had missed his grandfather entering the room. The burly old smith was standing next to the counter, looking down at the four items on the red velvet cloth.

  “He wants these duplicated,” Erik said quietly. “Eight of the daggers, two poniards, and a smallsword.”

  Byron pursed his lips. “That's a lot of work.”

  “He's offering a lot of money,” Erik replied, still quiet. “He also wants them crystal-forged of sky steel, which is why he came to me.”

  The old smith's expression was unreadable as he picked up one of the daggers and balanced it. He made a small motion, and the stiletto all but vanished in his hand, unseen and yet still deadly.

  “Crystal forging isn't cheap,” Byron said, his eyes on the weapon hidden in his hand.

  Erik shrugged and turned the purse the Draconan had left on the counter onto its side. Coins spilled out, glinting with the dull yellow of gold. “He paid twenty marks in advance for materials,” he said helplessly.

  Byron suddenly thrust downwards with the hand holding the stiletto. There was no glimpse of metal, but when the smith removed his hand, the knife's entire blade had disappeared into the wooden countertop. “Erik, these aren't normal weapons,” he said, his voice strained.

  “I know that, grandfather,” Erik replied. “The one and only time I ever saw anything like them was when I was in Garria. The Duredine smith I was working with had a collection of unusual weapons. He had a weapon like this,” Erik touched the stiletto his grandfather hadn't taken, “that was one of the prides of his collection. According to him, it was an assassin's weapon,” he finished.

  The old Duredine smith he'd worked with in the Garria Forest – a Duredine nation – would have known, too. Like many of that long-lived race he'd been a soldier in his youth, before turning his hand to the forge.

  “Erik, this isn't the sort of job you want to get involved in,” Byron told him. “The affairs of spies and assassins are dangerous to meddle in. You could get hurt.”

  “He gave me twenty gold marks up front, and offered another twenty on completion,” Erik said flatly. “Without a Mastership and my own shop, I can't afford to turn down that kind of money, no matter what it gets me involved with.”

  “Erik…”

  “It's done, grandfather,” Erik said softly, cutting Byron off. “I took the man's money. I'll do the job.”

  The old smith bowed his head in acceptance. “Be careful, Erik,” he admonished. “We don't know what you've got yourself into yet.”

  “I'll be careful,” Erik promised. “It's not like he's going to kill me for making weapons for him.”

  Even through his heavy cloak, the cool autumn air of Vidran's busy streets chilled him. Smith's Row was quiet compared to the rest of the city, but then many of the smithies were built into the smiths' homes.

  Once into the rest of the city, the population picked up dramatically. People of all six races travelled the streets, though the vast majority were human. Everyone came to Vidran, in the end. It was one of the major ports where the Aeradi and Mermen came to trade with the rest of Cevran.

  The population of non-humans rose as he crossed the bridge over the great North Selt River, whose immense navigable length was another source of Vidran's wealth. In the moments it took him to cross the bridge, he saw barges from the Dwarven North Hold and the Duredine's Kingdom of Garria.

  He knew he'd arrived at his destination when he heard the high, trilling roar of the first dragon. The eastern edge of the Trade Quarter housed the pens where the Draconans corralled their beasts. Even his current worries couldn't keep Erik from taking a moment to stop and watch the magnificent creatures.

  The dragons were immense, sinuous creatures. Their necks stretched out a quarter of their length from their broad, wing-bearing bodies. Long spiked tails flicked out from between a single pair of stocky legs, the tails' neatly-shined spikes gleaming under the sun as they flicked back and forth.

  Most of the dragons here were the huge blacks, the ones that carried the traders and goods of the Draconan peoples across the length and breadth of Cevran. A small number of smaller beasts were kept in pens near the ones for their larger brethren, which likely meant a caravan had come in recently. The only reason for the lesser dragons, the ones who bore the Draconan's elite Skyborne warriors, to be in Vidran was if they'd just escorted a trade caravan in.