Spheres

The Past

"A ruffled feather speaks louder than a chirping beak" -Wick's Journal Entry #2, recording a common plumin maxim

Scout flicked a small iron ball that sat on top of one of Ramara's work tables. It rolled into a small heap of three dozen other iron balls. The spheres were small enough that even his own hands could hold two of them comfortably. Each were forged carefully by Jedir, one of the local smiths roped into Wick's schemes.

The window screens of the workshop scattered the moonlight through the room, creating a calming blue-tinted atmosphere. Trip's new master said the paper was made of a bark that absorbed traces of light.

One day, Trip himself would learn the technique. The thought of Trip learning a craft under the safety of a roof was still an odd one for Scout to absorb. So many things had changed in only half a year's time.

Wick and Scout were alone in the shop. Ramara had taken Trip to his new home only a few blocks away.

Vein was Wick's first choice to apprentice under Jedir the smith. She was a patient girl with strong arms, but opted out, saying the work wasn't for her. The girl volunteered to be Scout's hands when his own weren't strong enough or make the long walks into Outlast when his breath failed him. So, she quickly became to Scout what Scout was to Wick.

On the adjacent table was a similar pile of iron balls, but these spheres had tiny little poles protruding out of them from different parts of the surface. Some had one leg, none had more than three.

Wick played with the weird toys ever since he came back from Grey Forest, spending every moment of free time he could either staring at the balls like they were a puzzle or cursing to himself if the balls did nothing. From what Scout had seen, they never did anything.

Despite everything the boy with the spade had done for them, Scout found himself getting annoyed watching Wick muse silently in the workshop.

Lanton had attacked them. The children were on the brink of war with the city, and they would lose. Wick was convinced they had no other choice than to get in bed with Graves, the monster in the shadows.

He was right. If they didn't make a move now, Scout and the children would be seen as targets for more of Lanton's anger.

Sure, Graves hadn't touched any of the orphans unless they messed with the merchants, but it was Graves they were talking about here. All Scout wanted for the children was a meal a day and a home. They were only a handful of apprenticeships away from making sure everyone had that.

Scout told Wick everything he knew about the mayor's son. They both understood that the fires were just the opening attack. If it came to war with whomever Lanton sent next, they would lose, even with Wick's demonbat and sorcery on his side. Wick was still an eleven-year-old boy. He couldn't fight an entire city by himself.

Scout was glad he learned to keep a steady mask. Wick could do many things, but he couldn't read his mind. What if Wick had found out Scout had been visiting Pebbles just to check in on her? It didn't matter that she refused to see him when he visited. If the truth came out, it would put him in a bad light with Wick.

Images of that dreadful night filled Scout with guilt. Wick seemed to know everything else, but he didn't need to know Scout's secret.

And what could Wick do or say to convince Graves to help a bunch of rattled orphans? A plea for help might get a copper penny in the begging-cup once every month, but other than that, it was just whining. Adults hated whining kids, even their own.

Yet here Wick was, fooling around with iron toys as if all their hard work wasn't about to go up in flames by dawn. Lanton might have already made his next move. The other kids were loyal, but when the daylight came and the safety of the night was gone, they might have new thoughts about the whole thing.

Scout pushed away his irritation and asked, "Why are you working on your toys before we go see Graves?"

Wick stared at the windows in that distant way Scout had grown used to. It was as if Wick was looking both close and far away, like the future could be added up with numbers. Scout's life tended to change after one of those looks; he just never knew if it was for better or worse until months later. He stopped himself from shivering.

Without breaking his gaze, Wick urged politely, "Look at it again."

Scout sensed another lesson and picked up one of the iron balls with protruding iron poles. He noticed how oddly smooth it was where the small poles met with the rough surface of the iron ball. His eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "The poles weren't welded to the ball. This isn't Jedir's work, is it?"

A ghost of a grin touched the corner of Wick's mouth, and Scout felt his irritation vanish in a flutter of pride. He had spotted something important.

Wick reached inside his leather jacket. The sound of something unlatching preceded Wick's hand appearing again with an iron ball identical to the ones on the table, only twice as large. He rolled the sphere across the table.

Scout reached for it. As soon as his finger touched it, he felt a small jolt of energy and pulled his hand back. It wasn't a hard shock the way it felt when rubbing fabrics. It was mild, like the heartbeat of a sleeping child. But a street urchin's wariness had kept blood in his body and his head on his neck. He looked to Wick, who gave him only a grin.

Wick urged him, "It won't harm you unless I tell it to."

Scout didn't completely trust Wick. The boy with charcoal-colored hair had schemes enough to fill the Sinking Sea. Wick made it clear Scout and the children were steps for his ladder. But he had done right by them, even if it was for selfish reasons. As long as he kept his word, then Scout would do what he said.

He picked up the larger iron ball with both hands. Even though it was twice as large as the others on both tables, it weighed just the same. It pulsed so softly, that he had almost mistaken it as a trick of imagination.

Scout's eyes widened. "It's alive?"

Wick stared at Scout as if making a decision. After a moment of silence, he said, "That's my only one. I need to make another."

He nodded to the first table with the small iron balls. "Those are the first step."

Then he gestured to his table which held the iron balls with protrusions. "Those are the second step."

Wick pointed to the larger iron ball in Scout's hand that seemed to pulse with faint life. "And that is the final. Well, if my theory is correct, it's only the beginning of everything. But if this works, I'll be opening a door to a world only the Misonians set foot in."

Scout rolled the ball back to Wick, who left it on his side of the work table. Once again, he was filled with as much wonder as he had questions whenever Wick spoke. "The mice-people? They were real?"

Wick nodded quietly. He hopped off his stool, walked to the first table with the smooth and small iron balls, and picked one up. It was pinched between in his fingers.

He stared at it intently.

Scout had seen that look of concentration on Wick before. It was the same one he made when discussing his grand plans for the future, how Scout and the other children would be molded into the golden stepping stool for Wick's ambitions. It both frightened and excited Scout.

Instead, two thin poles formed out of the small iron ball, like newborn chicks hatching from their egg. The corners of Wick's lips almost reached his eyes, the look feral and hungry.

The smile was not pretty and full of comfort the way Lanton's had been. It was not reassuring. It was the smile of a monster who was about to swallow the whole world in its jaws. It shook Scout to the very core of his being, and he could not tear his eyes away from the sight.

Unlike the heap of iron balls with poles on the second table, the poles in Wick's hand twisted their ends together like threads. The orb rippled from the center like a disturbed puddle of water, growing outward until it overtook the two smaller poles, forming into a larger ball with a completely smooth surface.

In less than a breath, the iron ball in Wick's hand had grown to twice the size. Wick's manic smile settled into a self-satisfied grin.

He handed the ball to Scout. The ball pulsed just like the first that Wick held and still weighed the same as before.

Despite the wonder at having seen real magic first-hand, Scout had so many questions. He knew that with Wick, asking the right one mattered several times more than asking five blindly. Most of the answers to those questions would come with time. Scout learned to be patient enough to wait for those answers. Some answers could only come with the asking, and so he chose.

"I know you have a purpose for these. If it was important, you would have told me already. That means it's even more important that I don't know," Scout began. "I've watched you mess around with them for six months, and not once did I see you do this. If you had, you'd have way more large spheres already."

Wick nodded. "And what's your question?"

Scout hummed to himself before asking, "Why now? I mean, how did you know that spending ten minutes before seeing Graves would lead you to finally figuring out how to make a small ball into a large one? That's a weird coincidence."

Wick breathed in slowly. "The truth is, I came up with the solution only this morning. This is the only time I've had to see if it would actually work."

He paused, considering. "You have brought up an important point, Scout. For most people, a coincidence is just that, a funny stroke of luck. But I learned something invaluable. With me and those like me, luck isn't just luck."

"I don't get it."

Wick scooped up a handful of iron balls without making them grow and pocketed them. He said, "I've taught you lessons I learned from the books I read. Some books were from the Guild libraries. Others I borrowed from merchants. Through me, you've learned from some of the greatest minds like Kumhail and Trechior."

"Kumhail is aces. He talks about sorcery." Even though it was Wick who taught Trechior's lessons, Scout didn't like Trechior. He imagined the scholar as a hunchback over a rickety desk under dim globe-light. Reading Trechior's volumes directly would have probably put him to sleep. It was good Wick had a way of spicing up lessons so they were easier to swallow.

Wick nodded. "Here's a new one for you. Someone once wrote that luck always comes in two parts, the good and the bad. When faced with a ruinous luck, you can either cry to die or survive to thrive. Do you know who said that?"

Scout stopped himself from letting out an annoyed groan. There was no possible way he would know who said that. Scout could read now, but it wasn't like he had Wick's memory. The guy was sharp as they came, but was also dramatic as a merchant's wife on her Thread Day.

He stuck to shrugging, waiting for the inevitable answer. If Wick was disappointed by Scout's response, he didn't show it.

After holding the pause another second for an audience of one, Wick finally said with a flourish, "The man who said it is the greatest mind of the surface, Ven Praxus. We've already faced ruinous luck today. It's time we collect our due."

Scout watched Wick smile to himself smugly as if he had just said the most amazing thing. He replied, "You might like your scholars, but smarts don't get you everywhere. I like Corvin, wandering around the continent wrestling with oreads and making love to hamadryads all for the sake of writing the Bestiary. You told me he found fifteen new species of titan-snakes last year alone."

"It was only fourteen," Wick replied sharply, obviously annoyed at Scout's jibe. He muttered incoherently to himself while he picked up his spade and stomped off to Ramara's study.

Scout's lips pressed into a smile. He knew Wick's fondness for Corvin. The man was a living legend. Wick had very few buttons, but Scout enjoyed the rare opportunity to push them. It was still a surprise that Wick held someone in reverence even above Corvin. He was sure Ven Praxus was going to come up more in future lessons.

Wick walked out of Ramara's study, holding a scroll in one hand and a serious demeanor on his face. Scout knew the contents of the scroll and what they meant. If things went well, that piece of paper would change his life forever. "First scroll of the wadegrass batch. Ready to meet Graves?"

At the sound of the man's name, Scout felt the blood drain from his face. For as long as Scout could remember, Graves and his henchmen had inspired fear among the orphans. He had even watched Graves' men burn down an entire block of merchant houses with their strange sorcery.

The man was a monster in the shadows.

But Scout had Wick, and Wick was a monster too.

--

Obadiah Graves sat in his chair, elbows on his knees and fingers in a steeple as he contemplated the two children standing before him.

The chair was wooden. He could have chosen a more comfortable seat for all of his meetings, but he liked the disquieting creak it made whenever he shifted his weight. Except for the dim torchlight in the middle of the walls, the room was dark, especially the corners.

In the corner to his left stood the bald-headed Berrma. She was still as the walls and blended neatly in the dark. The woman was petite, only two heads taller than the boy with the spade.

It only took the greenhair kid a few seconds to notice the woman. Sharp eyes, that kid. He called himself Scout after ousting the top dog in their pack. It was no wonder why fifty other little street rats followed his commands.

Little boy Scout was out of breath. It was only a single flight of stairs down into Graves' den, but the walk seemed to have taken the wind out of his sails. How a kid like him managed to find Graves' location and send a message through one of his men for a meeting put a pebble in Graves' boots. Even if all it took was a strong gust to blow Scout away, the boy was sharp in every way that mattered.

As usual, Rax's reports were spot on.

The kid standing behind Scout didn't look in Berrma's direction. It was as if he didn't see the woman, but Graves could tell when someone was purposely ignoring something. The charcoal-haired boy hid the knowledge well, but Graves knew the stage-trick to do it better. Rax had books and Graves had people.

This one was the Wick kid. And if Rax's report about him was to be believed, then Wick had a contract with a mountain bat with an old man's face. He also had a combat veteran's expertise with a low-level skill at eleven years old. Maybe the kid was a dropout from the Skillia. Rax was never wrong, but Graves had a difficult time swallowing the story.

Obadiah said they didn't need protection from two small boys, but Rax insisted on Berrma's presence. If they did anything suspicious, the woman would snap them in half like she had done with countless others.

Still, seeing the kid hiding his knowledge of Berrma blending in with the shadows was like crab soup in Graves' stomach. Seafood never sat well with him. Graves stopped himself from reflexively looking over his right shoulder.

Behind him at the foot of a small table sat Rax, scribbling away in that damned book he was always carrying. The sound of the pen scratching against thick paper filled the tense silence as the small boys waited for Graves to speak.

Like the creaking of his chair, the darkly lit damp room, and the appearance of no guards besides the scribe, the scratching was just another way to make visitors more uncomfortable.

Berrma broke the bodies and Rax made the plans while Graves' craft was a bit more nuanced. Keeping people off balance required showmanship and finesse. While stage actors used the trick of the light, Obadiah Graves used the truth held in shadows.

Scout had come here with his lapdog Wick to make a proposal. They wanted protection from Lanton in exchange for working for Graves until they served their mandatory military service for Vandia.

Obadiah shifted in his chair, squeezing a creak out of the old wood. Despite the boy's mask of a face, liquid trickled down Scout's shaking legs. Graves had learned his trade well.

When he spoke, he put more menace in his growl than he did with merchants who didn't stick to the rules. Kids didn't always understand subtlety. Besides, Graves enjoyed doing it. "You're under the impression that your concern is somehow my concern. Get out."

Scout took what looked like an involuntary step back, probably more from Graves' words than their meaning. The boy bumped into Wick's spade, and was pushed forward. The little greenhair straightened his spine. "Sir. Um. Mister Graves. We're fifty strong. Wick. Hand him the papers."

The other kid walked to Graves, handing him two scrolls filled with neat, crisp writing. Wick walked silently back behind Scout. The first scroll was thin paper. It detailed the list of kids who were now apprentices to the city's craftsmen until they turned sixteen.

Graves grunted dismissively, passing the papers behind him to Rax's table. Rax wore a mask, so it was difficult to read his reaction beyond the normal curiosity. Even after a decade, understanding the man was more difficult than convincing a married woman to bed, and probably not even worth half the trouble.

The second scroll was thicker. It was a contract, but not for binding the children to Graves' organization. He read it again. Were they serious?

Graves recognized the paper. Every man with a skill worth his salt knew the paper. "Whose purse did you cut to afford the iron to buy a wadescroll? Boy, do you know what this is?"

As if reciting a lesson in grammar school, Scout blurted, "Enchantments. To enchant an object with a skill, the object must have sufficient manna density. To use the enchantment, the object must be destroyed in its entirety. Wadegrass is the favored method to release skills for both its high flammability and manna density. Due to this, they are in constant demand. The method for making enchantments is still only known to the leatherbacks."

Scout blinked and twisted his heels shyly, as if not realizing he was the one who just spoke.

Surprisingly, Rax spoke up behind Graves, his high-tenor voice muffled behind the white ivory mask. "Besides that final little flourish, that was a word for word recitation from Kumhail's Principles of Elementary Sourcery. Where did a street urchin like you learn to read, let alone memorize a high-concept book like that?"

Graves' heart sped up. This was out of turn. In a whole decade, Rax had never involved himself in the front-facing matters unless to look the part of a scribe, which he was. Even the placid Berrma stirred in the shadows at the event.

"Speak out of turn again, and the next mark in your book will be your own blood," Graves barked. He didn't mean it, of course. Rax was the lifeblood of this whole thing. His plans had made them all rich without a single forceknight breaking down their doors. And he was a friend. Sort of. But Graves had spent a decade crafting a specific appearance, and he wasn't about to let it all crumble over someone forgetting their role.

A pause, then Rax said, "Forgive me, sir. It won't happen again."

Graves sighed inwardly.

"Mister Graves?" Scout asked innocently, confused by the matter and clearly afraid for his life.

"Ah. I see," said Wick. His hand fell softly on Scout's shoulder, pulling him back in the shadow as he himself stepped forward to face Graves. He wasn't even looking at Obadiah. His gaze was fixed on the masked Rax.

Graves snarled. "No one was talking to you, boy!"

Wick still ignored Graves, speaking over his shoulder to Scout. "Fear is like an amnestic zone. Clear the fog in your mind, Scout. Don't you see it?"

"N-no, Wick," Scout muttered. "I can't do this. No more lessons. Not now. Not like this."

Wick chuckled. He was clearly enjoying himself, and said irreverently, "But think of the children."

Graves' eyes widened before he understood why they did. His hands began to sweat. It took him another second to realize that Wick saw what no one else in ten years had.

Berrma seemed to understand because something blurred to the left of Graves. In a blink, the petite woman now stood in the light at the center of the room, holding Wick up in the air by his neck.

Scout shouted, "Wick!"

Graves shot up, his wooden chair falling back. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Ten years! They had a good run, right? Maybe if Berrma killed the kids, they could keep going. He looked to Rax, who was still sitting in his chair, unperturbed by what was happening.

But Rax's pen had stopped moving, and that was enough to make Graves lose his mind.

The spade dropped to the floor and the Wick boy choked for breath. Still, Wick's eyes were glued to Rax.

Obadiah Graves saw both of the boy's hands were filled with small iron marbles. They grew twice in size.

Magic balls. Weapons. He was going to throw them. Graves dove into a corner for cover. "Get down!"

But when he landed unscathed, he saw Wick drop the balls to the ground. They landed with a light thunk. He looked to the petite, bald-headed Berrma in leather armor kitted with knives from the people she had killed. Wick sputtered for breath, smiling like a hungry lizard, and whispered, "Cut."

A dozen blue blades simultaneously shot out from the floor beneath Berrma. The petite woman dropped Wick, and she blurred, appearing again in front of Rax, slapping away the blades of light so they wouldn't reach the scribe.

Wick fell to the ground, wheezing. Scout went to him, but Wick pushed him away, picking up his spade.

The boy leaned on his spade to right himself up, and laughed. Wick's eyes were bloodshot-red. His throat was already bruised from Berrma's titanic strength, tightening the laughter of a small child into an eerie, high-pitched cackle. Graves was certain he would hear that cackle in his nightmares for the rest of his life.

Berrma could stand toe-to-toe with multiple mid-tier forceknights. But her concern was always Rax's health, so she did not move from her place.

Stunned, Obadiah Graves found himself say, "Boy, who are you?"

Wick's eyes were still on Rax, knees steady and shoulders loose. "I think it's time for the adults to talk."