“Argyll is confident that you will succeed where your ancestors have failed.” Ruairí glanced around the room, at the stacks of crates and barrels piled up to the ceiling. “The supplies for Dromán,” he said. “Are they ready?”
Nicole turned and disappeared into the darkness without saying a word. Before Farris had a chance to ask Ruairí what exactly was going on, Nicole emerged from the shadows, with a wooden crate cradled in her arms.
“Ten prototypes here,” she said, presenting the box to Ruairí. “Loaded and ready.”
The Human slowly cracked open the lid, cautious, as if expecting something to jump out at him. Farris craned his neck over Ruairí’s shoulder to see what lay inside, but the darkness obscured his view.
“Good work,” said Ruairí, reaching inside. “These are far better quality than the first batch I’ve seen.”
“Yet they are far from perfect,” said Nicole, irritably. “The task at hand is more challenging than anticipated.”
“True,” said Ruairí, pulling an object out from the crate. “But if it were easy, it wouldn’t be worth doing.”
He handed the item to Farris. It was a strange shape, like a short length of steel tubing, bent and embroidered. It fit into Farris’s hand neatly, with the long end of the shaft pointing out over his knuckles. His index finger found a trigger, like that of a crossbow, right on the inside of the curve. He dared not go near it.
“It’s… some sort of weapon?” asked Farris, moving his hand up and down to discern the item’s weight. “What’s it for?”
“For killing Humans,” said Nicole, throwing Ruairí a sly smile. “Present company excluded.”
“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.
