“They’re called firearms,” said Ruairí, tentatively taking the object from Farris’s hand. “Nicole has been making them for years, supplying the Silverback’s people with them for skirmishes. Mass production has only begun recently.”
“How does it work?” Farris caught a glance at the other firearms in the crate. With ten or so in that one, there could easily be a hundred more stored where they stood.
“I borrowed a concept from Pyromancy,” said Nicole. “Like a red mage using flint-rings, the trigger is used to create a spark. But instead of amplifying its strength with magic, we use black powder to cause an explosion inside the chamber. This forces whatever is inside to shoot towards an enemy. Faster than a speeding arrow.”
“No knight in the kingdom could fight against a man armed with this,” said Ruairí. “A score of men—or Simians—could take on an army with the right training.”
Farris’s eyes widened. How could such a simple device, so easily smuggled, cause so much damage? “You,” he said to Nicole. “You invented this?”
“No. It was my father’s invention. I’m trying to improve on it.”
“Improve?” asked Farris. “Sin’s shadow! What is there to improve on?”
“The material,” interjected Ruairí. “A Geomancer could bend it out of shape in seconds, rendering it useless. The projectiles could be stopped and sent back to the marksmen.”
“Of course,” said Farris. “What do you propose we do?”
“There he goes again!” cried Nicole. “There is nobody working on this but me. I alone am labouring day and night to achieve what no other Simian engineer could: to create a new type of material, stronger than Simian-steel, and completely resistant to Human magic.”
“Imagine,” said Ruairí. “Arms and armour made from something not even a battalion of Geomancers could touch. When the time comes to march, there’ll be no stopping us.”
Farris suppressed a shiver. He always knew it would take some violence to bring the Crown to its knees, but he never expected the conflict to be so one-sided.
“And there’s more,” continued Ruairí, some excitement entering his voice. “Nicole is working on her own invention, something that will change the way wars are waged for centuries. Something to—”
“Enough,” said Nicole. “I wish not to have conjectures made about my work at this early stage. Nor do I want King Diarmuid’s bootlicker knowing more than he should. Tell me, Farris, have you proved your loyalty to the Movement since you returned to Penance?”
“Well, I did prevent a tactical strike on our fine city. The Crown was trying to disable the sky-fleet before a civil war could begin. I’ve saved the fleet, and the hundreds living in the Shadow of Sin.”
“The skyfleet would have been no loss,” said Nicole, “not with my work on our side. And more than a thousand will die if we go to war. Would that bother you, Farris Silvertongue? Would that make you reconsider calling yourself one of us?”
Skies above. She’s beautiful when she’s furious.
“No,” he said eventually. “I’ll prove my worth in the coming months, you’ll see.”
“You’ve seen too much already,” she said. “I must ask you two to leave. I’ve work to do.”
Farris and Ruairí began making their way back out through the darkness, the latter with the crate of firearms held tightly to his chest.
“There’s fire in her,” whispered Ruairí, right when they were out of earshot. “I’d reckon she hates the king more than the Silverback himself.”
“Aye,” said Farris, trying to catch a glance back at her. “I hope she doesn’t hate me half as much as that.”
Chapter 10:
Rings of Fire
Let us consider the sexual habits of the Simian. With the absence of a soul, one is incapable of the strongest Human emotions, including love and hope. To accommodate for a lack of the former, the typical Simian resorts to a life of promiscuity and perversion. Couplings of more than two individuals at once are not uncommon, and it seems that many have no preference for a particular gender. Life-long unions are as absurd a notion to them as their atheistic beliefs are to us. Indeed, the seed of a Simian does not quicken in the belly of a female as easily as a Human’s would inside a wife, so little care is given to the selection of a mate. The term ‘rat’ is often used as a derogatory term for the Simian, but this comparison is a poor one. The natives of Alabach do not breed as quickly as rodents. If they did, then their numbers should surely outnumber our own.
Excerpt from Between Penance and Sin: A Study of Simian Biology, King Eoghain Móráin, First of his Name, Third Incarnate of Seletoth, AC101.
***
Face it, you have no idea where you’re going, said Sir Bearach. I see no Academy around here.
Fionn sighed, turning back to face the way he came. The straight streets of Penance’s Saltworks were identical in every direction, with terraced buildings either side of the road like clay walls enclosing a black river. Even the ground felt strange, for Fionn’s feet were more accustomed to cobblestones than this city’s flat surfaces.
Still, he continued in the direction he initially intended, ignoring the taunts of the knight inside his head.
The directions I was given in Dromán brought me here, thought Fionn. And I doubt the brothers of the Academy would be wrong about something as important as this.
The mage felt Sir Bearach snort at the back of his mind. Or their mind. Lately, Fionn wasn’t quite sure. The knight had opened up to him a little on the ferry, but once the Tower of Sin appeared on the coastline, Sir Bearach went quiet, only to speak again once Fionn realised he was lost.
Do you even know what you’re looking for? asked the knight. I’d expect the Academy Chapter of Penance to be on a busier street than this.
Fionn agreed. The Saltworks were the residential epicentre of Penance. Despite its name, this district didn’t smell at all like the sea. The streets were also void of life, with the buildings either side of Fionn almost derelict in their stature.
We’re definitely at the right address, Fionn reassured himself, yet he still felt unsure. The streets of Penance had been nameless since the Fall of Sin, so they could be only identified by numbers. The Academy Chapter was supposed to be located in the fourteenth building on the eighth street of the Saltworks.
Are you sure it wasn’t the eight building of fourteenth street? asked Sir Bearach. That area seemed far livelier—
“No!” said Fionn, out loud. He immediately felt grateful that there was nobody around to hear him. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. It is supposed to be right here!
He half hoped to see the Academy building before him when he opened his eyes, but was instead confronted with the same plain, clay-terraced building as before. A stained wooden door hung in its frame, splintered and cracked throughout. Although he had passed it a dozen times, only now did Fionn notice the number “14” chalked out on the ground before it. As he went to take a closer look, Sir Bearach spoke again.
Don’t tell me it was here all along. Gods, tell me anything but that!
Fionn’s gaze caught a tiny metal sign next to the door, roughly the size of an envelope, with thin letters scratched into its surface: Conleth the Red.
Who’s that? asked Sir Bearach. He sounds like a Pyromancer.
Fionn frowned. He’s the one we were looking for. He stood back and looked up at the tenement building, two stories tall and box-like, identical to the hundreds of others in the Salt-works. This is the Penance Chapter of the Academy.
I was expecting more, said Sir Bearach. The Academy of Dromán is a sight to behold. This is the type of house a dozen commoners would share.
Fionn ignored the knight’s remarks—at least, he ignored them as best as he could. His oversized hand rapped upon the wooden door with more force than the mage had intended, causing it to open slightly.
Unlocked, said Sir Bearach. I’d put money on the place being looted long ago.
That brought a smile to Fionn’s face. From what he was told, Conleth the Red was one of the greatest living Pyromancers, a Master of Fire for longer than most of Fionn’s tutors in Dromán had been alive. No sane person would dare attempt to burgle the home of someone capable of turning the city to cinders.
“Firemaster Conleth?” called Fionn, slowly pushing the door inwards. “I was told you’d be expecting me?”
The door immediately slammed shut, causing Fionn to jump away from it in fright. He had been sure there was nobody on the other end.
“Expecting you, so I was!” cried someone from inside the house. “I was expecting you a bloody moon ago, and I was about to give up expecting altogether!”
The voice was shrill and sharp, speaking quick words that cut through the air, like daggers against a chalkboard.
