Tristam noticed her unease and looked around urgently. “Something wrong, Seren?” he asked.
Then the warning faded as quickly as it had come. Seren furrowed her brow in confusion and shook her head. “No,” she said. “It was nothing.”
Dalan finished his negotiations with a coachman and climbed aboard the vehicle, curtly gesturing for the others to follow. The coachman gave Omax a wary sneer as the warforged lumbered aboard, but said nothing.
“To the d’Cannith estates, at all possible speed,” Dalan said as he sat back.
The driver nodded and drove the horses to a gallop with a crack of his whip. The vehicle rode smoothly through the grim capital, moving toward the busy streets of the Commerce Ward. The busy mumble of shouting merchants swallowed the silence. The air was filled with the rich scent of cooked bread and sweet spiced meats. The coach rumbled to a halt before a large estate near the center of the ward. Above the heavy steel gates was emblazoned the gorgon seal of House Cannith. Dalan pushed his cloak back over one shoulder, and now wore the same Cannith crest openly on his blue robe. The guild master steadied the small, square cap on his head and advanced toward the gates.
“I am Master Dalan Cannith, on urgent business from the City of Wroat,” Dalan announced. “I wish to see Baron Zorlan at once.
The guards looked at each other uncertainly.
“Do you have identification, friend?” one asked.
“Would you prefer to see my papers or would this suffice?” Dalan asked. He drew up his loose right sleeve, displaying the twisted dragonmark pattern that covered his right shoulder.
“We will announce your arrival at once, Master d’Cannith,” one of the guards said, quickly opening the gates.
An elderly servant in slate black livery was already approaching. He greeted them with a bow.
“Master d’Cannith, you are expected,” the man said.
“Indeed,” Dalan replied.
“The Baron is currently occupied,” the servant said. “However his representative, Gavus Frauk, will attend you until he becomes available.”
The guards quickly returned to their posts, gratefully resuming their uninteresting duties.
“My business is only with Zorlan,” Dalan said sharply.
“Understood,” the servant said in a mild, disinterested voice. “If you are too impatient to conduct an appointment through proper channels, you are free to depart and await the Baron’s convenience in a local inn. We shall gladly dispatch a messenger to notify you when he is available. It may be days, I fear. This is a busy time.”
Dalan gave a tight, joyless smile. “I apologize,” he said. “I am too impatient to renew the bonds of family. I have been away from my kinsmen for a long time. I only assumed Zorlan would be eager to pay hospitality to his cousin, who served him during the War. Is this not so?”
“I am certain he will be pleased to meet with you,” the servant replied with an equally thin smile. “But you visit us unannounced. The Baron is in the midst of an important meeting with several international clients. Should I interrupt and request that your arrival take precedence over the business of House Cannith?”
Dalan chuckled. “Of course not,” he said. “Sometimes I overestimate my importance. A few small successes can leave even the most undeserving man to feel he is a master of the house.” Dalan looked around the small courtyard idly. “Incidentally, Baron Merrix sends Zorlan his regards.”
The servant studied Dalan blandly, ignoring the veiled barb. “Master Gavus awaits,” he said. “If you are ready.”
“That will be fine,” Dalan said.
The servant bowed perfunctorily. “Follow me.”
He led them into the estate, turning down a side hallway and leading them down the stairs. The interior of the building was as austere and dark as the outside, sparing little effort for decoration. The faint rhythm of a ringing anvil resounded elsewhere in the building, mixing discordantly with the voices of unseen chanters. The air smelled electric, alive. Magic lived here and was given form by the hands of artificers and magewrights. Tall statues lined the walls at intervals. Seren paused to study the plaques mounted beside a few. They were representations of former patriarchs of the guild or master artificers who had invented one legendary creation or another.
As they continued deeper, the busy sounds of the House of Making grew more subdued. The servant finally led them to a heavy door framed by shining magical stones in wire sconces. He spoke a word and gestured at the door, causing it to swing open. A small library waited within. A semicircle of bookcases surrounded a small group of stuffed velvet chairs. A single statue stood at the rear of the chamber, depicting an elderly artificer wielding a sword in one hand and a lantern in the other. A thin little man in pale white robes reclined in the chair beside the statue, peering up at them through his spectacles as they entered. His wispy hair was streaked with gray, and his face was lined with age. The room was strangely silent.
“Master Dalan d’Cannith of Wroat,” the man said in a bored voice. “Finally you arrive. I am Gavus Frauk, one of the senior magewrights of the household. I would be pleased to keep you company until the Baron can make time to speak with you.”
Dalan gave a short bow. Gavus offered a vague nod in reply. The servant slipped out and closed the door behind them.
“These are my associates,” Dalan said, gesturing behind him as he sat in a chair across from Gavus. “Tristam Xain, Seren Morisse, and Omax.”
“Tristam Xain,” Gavus said, looking at Tristam intently. “I know that name. You were one of Ashrem d’Cannith’s students.”
Tristam paused halfway into another chair. “You’ve heard of me?” he asked, surprised.
“I am a great admirer of your late mentor’s work,” he said, gesturing at the statue behind him. “Isn’t it obvious?”
Dalan looked up at the statue blandly. “Is that meant to be my uncle?” he asked. “It’s a poor likeness of Ashrem. Too much chin. Eyes are too narrow. He would never wear a robe with sleeves that loose. They would drag in the ink and chemicals while he worked. Had this sculptor ever seen my uncle?”
Gavus’ smile froze. “I was the sculptor,” he said. “In point of fact, I knew Ashrem, and I think it is a good likeness.”
“Ah,” Dalan said. “Well, art is art, and there is no truth in art, is there? There is only what one likes and what one does not. Eye of the beholder and whatnot.”
“A rather coarse and uncultured belief,” Gavus said tersely. “That which has value is obvious to all those with a mind keen enough to perceive it.”
“How did you know my uncle?” Dalan asked, changing the subject.
“Ashrem was a student of diverse schools of artifice and magic,” Gavus said. “When he wished to know more about the nature of constructs, he came to me. I maintained correspondence with him, albeit irregularly, until his death. I considered him a friend.”
“Constructs?” Seren said. “Did you build warforged?” Omax looked up curiously.
“No,” Gavus said, looking at Omax with obvious unease. “I have fashioned parts that were used to construct warforged, but never participated directly in their animation. My expertise lies in the field of golemcraft.”
“Mindless constructs,” Dalan said.
“Quite,” Gavus said. “The results are inflexible but more reliable, in my humble opinion. Warforged have a penchant for stubborn individuality. Golems do as they are told.” He smiled briefly.
“And warforged think for themselves,” Seren said.
“Not an altogether positive trait, for a weapon,” Gavus said.
“A charming outlook,” Dalan said.
“Do not misjudge me,” Gavus said. “I am sure your Omax is a courageous fellow, but my goal has ever been to create tools-not life. The creation of the warforged was a grave, arrogant error. They are distinctly inferior to true golems, sacrificing power and durability for the same intelligence that only makes them so difficult to control. Their freedom to act without direction is more a burden than anything else. They are no better than the men they were built to replace. Their existence complicates an already complex world, but what is done is done. They are here now, inferior creations they may be, and we must make room for them, yes?” He looked at Omax brightly.