The Lady Pancetelle wasn't much of a lady in Braph's opinion. She smelled as bad as the Ryaen docks, assaulted his ears with foul language and she'd been a rough ride. And, if he was splitting hairs, she was a bit potty about the middle. No one could accuse her of being sleek. But he supposed he had to excuse her that – she wasn't built for speed. At least the ship had carried him safely to Ryaen.
He scratched his beard, sweeping his eyes over the docks. Dirty, stinking, and noisy, the scene offended his senses. Sea birds squawked overhead, showering departing passengers in green and white guano. With a thought and a gesture, he conjured an invisible barrier around him. A woman's gasp and complaint nearby soon let him know it hadn't been for nothing. He rewarded her accusing look with a contemptuous one of his own, as she dabbed herself free of the deflected droppings with a handkerchief and continued on his way.
Burly men lifted crates from the Lady and hurled passengers' luggage to the docks. Braph had no luggage but the bag slung from his shoulder, and so departed at a brisk pace, with little regard for those in his way.
Away from the docks, Ryaen was almost pleasant. Quieter, at the very least. The fashions weren't dissimilar to those on Phyos: tightly corseted women in brilliantly colored dresses, and men in braces and bowler hats, trying to look as though they had more important things to do than pass lewd comments on the women. Braph knew better.
He reached the livery stable and stood, assessing the horse flesh with an unskilled eye. Every one of the creatures was a simple, brainless beast. However, if he were to make his way to Cheer under his own steam, it would leave no power to perform even the most basic magic. And there was every chance he would need far more than basic magic to take the girl back to Turhmos.
“After a horse, mister?”
“Indeed.” Braph looked the man up and down. He wore a heavy leather apron over simple brown trousers and a filthy shirt. Braph was unimpressed. “Your best.”
“Speed, stamina or temperament?”
“All of them.”
“You'll be wanting Revera. She's a good 'un.” The man grinned. “You got money? I can't be sending her out without a decent deposit, you understand?”
Braph nodded.
“Right y'are.” The man disappeared through a heavy side door, appearing some time later, leading a saddled horse.
“That'll be ten miras.”
“How much?”
“Ten miras. She's a good horse.”
“Hmm.”
“Eight?”
Braph sighed and dug into his money pouch. It still seemed an exorbitant amount for horseflesh, but he wasn't an unreasonable man. Everyone had the right to earn a living. He placed eight paper notes into the man's hand. The fingers closed on the paper, but the reins were not handed over and instead the man studied the paper, his brows furrowed.
“What's this?”
“Paper money. They're Turhmos miras. Accepted everywhere on Phyos.”
“Got any real money?”
Braph sighed once more, working hard to keep his temper in check, and held out his hand to receive the notes back. When they weren't forthcoming, he snatched them out of the man's hand before rummaging through his pouch once more and bringing out an assortment of coins. Before the man saw them, he closed his hand and opened it again to display the eight miras – or what looked like eight miras – and sprinkled them into the outstretched palm. Braph couldn't say how long they would maintain their appearance. He'd only ever performed the trick when he was parting with coins and had yet to keep any he had altered. Grubby fingers closed over the money, and the reins were thrust at him.
Outside in the Ryaen sunshine, Braph gathered the reins and swung himself into the saddle. The horse was shorter than he would have liked, and he hoped he hadn't been played. On the outskirts of Ryaen he jabbed his heels into her sides. She took off with a turn of speed that nearly sent him over her rump and maintained a pace that had him in Lanich by early evening.
He booked the finest room in the finest hotel in Lanich. That wasn't saying much; this was Aghacia, after all. In Duffirk, Turhmos's capital, they had hotels reaching eighty feet high and contraptions to lift you all the way to the top – elevators, they called them. Lanich's finest was a mere two stories and a rickety flight of stairs.
Braph threw his hide gloves on the bed and flexed his fingers. They, along with the rest of him, were stiff from the day of riding. He thought about treating his tired muscles but decided a simple night's rest might ease his aches. He had a good number of crystals on him, but it was better to save them until really needed.
Propping his leather-booted foot on a chair, he unbuckled the small compartment behind his ankle to check the last crystal he'd made from Orinia's blood. He touched the crystal, remembering their last day together. Then he refastened the buckle. That one crystal held more power than the others combined, more power than he should ever need: unless he ran into his brother. But there was no need for Jonas to be in Aghacia, and only the smallest chance he was still looking for Braph. No, Braph was almost certain that Aris – Jonas's captain, father-figure, and creator – wouldn't risk his little project by pursuing revenge.
A knock came at the door and Braph opened it to receive his evening meal, brought by a sullen serving girl. A place as small as this didn't usually offer room service, but they did if you had the knack for asking in the right way. Braph had the knack; he had the knack for all sorts of things.
He placed the tray on the bed and set about peeling off the rest of his leather – the long jacket, and the triple-buckled boots, and the thick leather belt with its equally heavy buckle, finally unlacing his trousers and sliding them to the floor. Then he threw himself in the chair and chewed at a piece of tough meat while he contemplated the days ahead.
He'd met the girl's father in Cheer about five years ago. She must have been there, too, but her father had led him astray. And if Turhmos hadn't allowed Orinia to become so ill, forcing Braph's return, he would have found her. If she had since moved, he had to hope there was a new trail to follow. And he hoped she was as powerful as her mother and not diminished by her father's half-blood.
Orinia. He missed her, though it irked him to admit it. She had been everything to him during some of his most important formative years: his mother, his wife, his mistress, his best friend, the source of his power. Behind every great man... With her behind him, he had indeed been great, he had been supreme. He would be again.
His meal finished, he put the plate by the door. Then he fished in his bag for his thunderstick, one of his own inventions. As far as he knew it worked, but he was still perfecting the ammunition for it. For now, he used small spherical pellets that he packed down on top of the explosive. He had been developing an all-in-one round that didn't require packing the powder first, but he couldn't experiment further without his workshop. The device would be needed should his magic prove insufficient to defeat his brother.
He lounged in a chair by the open window. Resting his elbow on the sill he sighted along the thunderstick's barrel. A man in a dress coat hurried along the street completely unaware that, if he chose, Braph could put a hole in the back of his head. For a moment, Braph sorely wanted to, just to know how it would feel.
“Bang,” he said emotionlessly.
Braph slept well. In the dawn, after a brief period of meditation, he stretched his muscles and took to his horse once more, aiming to be in Iaves by nightfall. Another day closer to Cheer.
