Unbound

"What?" Atar spun just in time to catch the heel of a boot slipping out of the first-story window. "Isla! There!"

He flared his Agility, but it wasn’t enough. By the time he reached the sill, the figure was already gone.

"You’ll not run from me," Isla hissed. “Come, child!”

She took off, green-gold magic crackling around her Body as she blurred through the front door. Atar chased after her, snarling internally. "Flame! Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

Flame said nothing. He merely burned.

"Gah!" Atar burst through the doors, leaping the last ten feet over the small porch to land awkwardly in the street.

Isla was already speeding around the building—Atar followed. Isla was peering at the ground and Atar saw it too: footprints. They chased them down, all the way to the end of the alley and onto the main thoroughfare just beyond.

“Burning ashes,” Atar cursed as soon as they saw the road. The sigaldry he and his people had carved into the streets had melted all the snow. There were no more footprints, and the midmorning streets were packed with people. “I can’t tell which one is our intruder. Where—”

“Quiet,” Isla demanded. Her eyes were closed as a swell of Harmonics surged around her. Atar shuddered. The sound was palpable so close, as if a concerto were playing beneath his skin. Her eyes snapped open, fixated on a distant point. “Follow.”

“I do not, but I have often been forced to find lost things in my duties.” She held up a piece of high steel, the one stamped with Anguin’s maker’s mark. “And it seems our thief has more of Anguin’s work with him.”

Atar was impressed. He'd never heard of such a Skill, let alone one that wasn't really a Skill. More like a technique, perhaps. The Grand Harmony confused Atar at the best of times, and he didn't bother questioning it. "Lead the way.”

They followed cautiously through the crowd, moving fast but not running. The thief was somewhere close, Isla had said, and they didn’t want to spook him. Around them, the mid-morning shoppers were loud—raucous even in some cases. A few late-night revelers had continued their binge into the morning, carrying now-empty mugs of ale as they stumbled through the city streets. Others were hawking their wares from the front of shops, loudly proclaiming a list of goods and services each well-kept storefront had to offer. There were no stalls in this portion of the Scale, but there were always people, usually younger ones, situated outside of the shops to draw crowds in. Between the laughter, the loud conversation, and the rambunctious sales pitches, Atar had trouble concentrating.

Where was the thief?

“This is where he stood,” Isla said, stopping in the center of the street. People cursed and split around her, but she paid them little heed.

Atar craned his neck around people. He wasn’t particularly short, but a number of them were annoyingly tall. “I don’t see the bastard.”

“Hold a moment,” she said, and she repeated the harmonic technique. The music unfurled and Isla swiveled, pointing down another street, this one with considerably thinner crowds.

"There," she said.

Following her finger, Atar spotted a larger man with a silk scarf wrapped around his head and a bulging leather bag slung over his shoulder. He moved with a furtive speed, head down beneath a wide-brimmed hat as he turned quickly into another alley.

Without speaking, the two of them flared their Agility, hustling to catch up. Isla slipped through the crowd like oil on water, but Atar, surprisingly, was faster. His insides burned with annoyance—at himself and Flame within—and perhaps that is what fueled his normally aching Body. Atar reached the alleyway, skidding over a puddle before cursing. All that laid before him was a thirty-span stone wall stretched between two shops.

"What?" Atar looked up. "Did he jump over?"

Before he could make a decision, Isla sped past him. She didn’t stop even as she hit the stone wall. Instead, she set her boots firmly onto the rough stone—and ran directly up its surface.

Atar gaped. Burning ashes.

impressive.

With nonchalant adroitness, the Chanter landed atop the wall and stared into the distance. Once again, Atar heard that harmonic thrum from her…before she hopped back down.

"Gone from my sight," she said, "but he still carries the steel. We'll follow at a distance, see where he's taking all that metal to, and hopefully why."

Dabney stopped a few feet before the entrance of the safe house, panting and covered in sweat. His legs were shaking despite his Endurance, and his heart hammered as if he’d faced down his first monster charge. He'd lost his pursuers, but they were on his mind. They'd almost caught him. For the past half glass, he'd laid a false trail over and through the Scale district, into the Wing and back. He knew that they had been well and lost. Still, he checked over his shoulder one last time as he approached the safehouse door.

He knocked, beating out a secret rhythm. The moment the tattoo ended, a slot at the top of the door slid open. There was no one there.

"I've got what you need," Dabney said to the emptiness.

The slot closed and, a moment later, the door opened.

Dabney hustled through. He didn’t bother looking for the door guard; he knew he’d never spot anyone. Instead he walked up a set of stairs and into a short hallway flanked by several rooms filled with people. Enough quiet conversations filled the house that it was like a low droning in Dabney’s ears, not to mention the Mana that flowed from their hands into strange constructs he had no words to describe.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Teine was there, leaning heavily on his cane and checking over several inscrutable devices. "Ah, good," he said, noticing Dabney. "The dullard returns. You have the materials?"

"I do." Dabney set the leather sack down on the ground. He had to work hard not to snap at the former Elder. Dabney despised being called dumb. He wasn't. He just preferred to think things through, and like anything worth doing, that could take time.

Someone Dabney couldn't see snatched the bag up and carried it off to another room. They were doing things in those rooms, things Dabney wasn't quite clear on. Building something. Teine didn't say. Wouldn’t. They all had their roles, he would tell them, and Dabney's wasn't to ask questions.

The man was intimidating. Teine had always been intense back when he was the Elder of Spirit in the Protectors' Guild. Now he was driven beyond the limits of mortal men. A fire burned in him that seemed to feed off the chaos he was creating around the city.

"Do you have the numbers and response times?" Teine asked the empty air. An unseen guard, most likely. A scroll was handed over, coming seemingly from nowhere. "Ah, good. These are getting more detailed. You really are worth the money."

"As you say.” The voice that answered was neither male nor female, but a buzzing mixture of the two. Dabney still had no idea who they were, but they had appeared only recently and spoke to no one but Teine.

"Are you still here, boy? Go!" Teine said, before suddenly holding out his burned hand. "Wait. I have a task for you."

Teine hobbled over to the wall, where a low table was filled with a number of items. He grasped a leather bundle and unrolled it, revealing a set of high steel hammers. A common tool Dabney had seen many, many times in Elderthrone’s Forge.

"Use these on your next prototype. The enchantments we’ve laid into them should provide an extra oomph to the design,” he said. “We still need it to be refined. The timing isn't quite right."

Dabney took the bundle, frowning. "There were people at Anguin's house."

Teine froze. "People? What people?"

"Atar, a woman I didn't recognize. Blonde, short, with a crown in her hair." Dabney paused. "Atar was wearing a crown, too. Not like him."

"And just how long were you going to wait to tell me this, dullard?" Teine snapped. His melted wax hands opened and closed in agitation and his face twisted in bated rage.

"You wanted the metal. I gave it. What are you going to do about them?”

“Did they follow you?"

"No. They tried. But you gave me this," he said, gesturing to the bracer around his wrist. He'd had it activated the whole time, which made him all but invisible, even in daylight. "I lost them. Easy."

Teine watched Dabney with cold eyes and the younger man felt a finger of dread press down against him. Even before the man's face had been mutilated, Teine had been very good at scaring his students, and it suddenly felt like Dabney had never left the classroom.

"Good," the mage had finally said. "But we will be moving, just in case. Everyone! Pack up!"

There was no acknowledgement or questions. Just action. The crew moved without a word, packing up their projects and tools faster than Dabney could track until their tables and workbenches were utterly stripped. Other projects were bundled up by those unseen hands, simply vanishing.

Teine turned and hobbled down a short hallway toward an open door that many of his people had filed through. “Goodbye, dullard.”

"How will I find you in the future?" Dabney called after him.

Teine didn't pause. "I'll find you," he said, and was gone.

Dabney stood in the now-empty safehouse and pondered. Teine never explained anything and treated him like dirt; it was as if he’d never left the Protectors Guild. Dabney scrubbed his face with a wide hand. He didn't like the way he was being treated here, but what choice did he have? Lillian wanted this, so here he was; tired and scared, but driven, just like her. Only, Lillian was driven by anger and he wasn't. Dabney just... he just wanted her to be happy.

The burly young man shouldered his empty leather bag and slipped through the nearest exit. He'd do anything to make Lillian happy.

Even take down an Autarch.

I cannot believe you hid the intruder from me, Atar sent into his core.

For the first time in nearly half a glass, Flame answered. if I was not caged, this would not have happened.

Atar fumed, unable to rebut for a second. The mini-Urge was both right and infuriating. If you did not tamper with my emotions and Mind, then you wouldn't be caged!

i will not be made less. you will not be made less, either.

Atar furrowed his brow. "What are you—”

Isla tapped him on the shoulder. "There, I see him." She pointed further down the road from where they were hidden in an alcove between shops. A large man was walking down the road, his boots scuffing along the sleek surface, and an empty leather satchel hung over his shoulder.

Atar recognized the scarf, that oddly silky one he had wrapped around his face. It was patterned with a jagged design that he was remarkably familiar with. Houndsfoot, it was called, a fabric popular with the nobility. Or it was, two seasons ago. "So he's either noble, or he robbed a noble. An out-of-fashion one, at that."

Isla hummed to herself before wincing. “I still cannot Analyze him; even attempting it pains me. He must be carrying a veiling enchantment. For it to be strong enough to block a Master Tier, this man must have real backing.”

“Blind gods, who would back people setting off explosions in populated areas?”

“Someone with a goal,” Isla said darkly. “It appears that he dropped off the medal he stole in that building. I saw no one leave from my vantage point. Did you?”

Atar shook his head. "No.”

Isla resounded with that harmonic pulse, her special technique again. "The steel is warded now. I cannot find it. Blast. I will follow our thief. See where he goes. You must stay here and watch this place. I need to know if anyone comes back or exits.”

Atar groaned internally, but nodded. “Alright. And how long must I sit in the blasted cold?”

The Chanter drew herself up to her full unimpressive height and somehow looked down at Atar despite being a half span shorter. “As long as it takes.”

She marched away, cloak drawn close until she seemed a frail, gray old woman. Impressive illusion. Atar chewed his lip. Why must unlikable people be so competent?

power draws those that seek the peak. those that rise do not care for those that fall behind.

That is sometimes true, but... Atar thought of Felix, Vess, and even that blundering fool Beefhammer. They were all powerful, and each was annoyingly kind. It does not have to be.

Flame did not answer. He simply burned.

Atar settled in, his eyes fixed on the building less than a block away as a few people passed by on errands. It was bitterly cold despite his cloak, and he rubbed his hands vigorously. He briefly considered conjuring a fire to warm himself, but it would draw too much attention. Instead he hunkered down out of the intermittent wind and waited.

Alister is probably enjoying a fine meal beneath sunny skies right now, he thought, a touch wistful. I certainly hope so. Anything would be better than this.

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