Dalan scowled. “I suspect after this failed theft, Marth will make a more dramatic and violent move against me,” he said. “I have already gathered what I need so that I can leave Wroat, but I regret the damage he will do in my wake.”
“What does he want?” Seren asked. “What’s so important that it’s worth killing for? What’s so important that you would gamble with people’s lives?”
“I am no gambler, Seren,” Dalan said, looking at her intently. “A gambler is a man who risks what otherwise would not be lost. I gamble nothing, for many lives are already at risk.”
“That’s no answer.”
“Fools always believe a simple answer will wipe trouble away,” Dalan said with a sneer. “Simple answers are the opiate of simple minds; I prefer things complex. But so be it, Miss Morisse. Let the burden of enlightenment be on your head. My uncle Ashrem d’Cannith was a brilliant scholar, but his primary area of expertise was artifice-magical engineering. Though I doubt you would have heard of him, you know his symbol already.” Dalan gestured at the crest on the book she had stolen. She realized many more of the books in this room bore the same crest.
“Ashrem made his career in the Last War,” Dalan continued, “fashioning all manner of devices. His skill and innovation are unsurpassed even to this day. You now sit in an example of his brilliance. This airship is one of three he once possessed, and it features many of his own innovations. It was his genius that helped bring about the warforged, as well as countless other creations. Sadly my uncle’s political acumen did not match his ingenuity, and thus he made his share of enemies in our house. These enemies turned their ire to me when he passed; a rather dubious inheritance. That, and this, of course …”
Dalan took a scrap of paper from his desk, rolled it into a tube, and held it over the small candle on his desk. Seren watched as it burned into ashes on his desk. Dalan concentrated a moment and, with a wave of his hand, rendered the page whole and undamaged again.
“Impressive,” she said.
“A dragonmark trick,” he said. “Those who bear the Mark of Making can repair what has been destroyed, but such tricks are the extent of my magical talents. My uncle was a true genius. My minor talents are quite literally nothing compared to his, and to those of many others in my house. My lack of magical talent, combined with the political situation he left behind, made progress in my house difficult for me. The most I could manage was to maintain my position as guildmaster here, though such a prestigious title amounted ultimately to a clerk’s duties. I was to be discarded and forgotten in Wroat.”
“The city has a way of collecting unwanted things,” Seren said.
“Indeed. A few years ago, while sorting through my inheritance, I discovered a passage in one of my uncle’s journals. It made veiled references to other unfinished works, hidden works, in particular an artifact he called the Legacy. It is my belief that the Legacy would have been the most fantastic of my uncle’s creations. It is my duty to reclaim it in his name, and to do so before men like Marth can do the same.”
“How noble,” Seren said. “I’m sure the possibility that you’d win back your House’s favor never entered your mind.”
Dalan smiled. “Naturally my motivations are complex. I hardly find that unusual. A soldier may fight with all his strength and win a battle-in the end justice prevails and the king reigns for another day. Does it matter in the end that, during the battle, the soldier only wished to survive? I think we all do noble things for selfish reasons. I often find that only those who think they are truly selfless-those who act on behalf of abstract ideals or beliefs with no thought for the moment-are those who generally bring the most harm. They lose sight of what truly matters. In any case, I can assure you that my modest political aspirations are far more innocent than whatever this Captain Marth’s intent may be for my uncle’s work. All of Ashrem d’Cannith’s closest colleagues and students have either perished or vanished since his death. Don’t you find that unusual?”
“What does the Legacy do?” Seren asked.
“What indeed?” Dalan said. “I am not at liberty to discuss the specifics, but suffice it to say it is incredibly powerful.”
“As a weapon?” she asked.
Dalan paused. “All things can be used as weapons,” he said in a subdued tone. “My uncle would not wish his discoveries to be used in such a way. He was a man of peace.”
“Then maybe your Legacy is better off undiscovered,” Seren answered.
“A conclusion I have not dismissed,” Dalan said, “but knowledge is not a thing that can be caged or extinguished. Whatever the truth of my uncle’s discovery, one day it will be found, by Marth or others like him. It falls to me to ensure that it is discovered by those who will use the knowledge responsibly.”
“And you believe House Cannith will use it responsibly,” Seren said.
“In fact I do,” he said, his tone mildly offended. “Do not misunderstand me, Seren. I comprehend the mercantile motivations that drive my house. I understand them better than most. The lure of wealth and power are strong, and to be certain many Canniths would be seduced by the notion of exploiting my uncle’s work. Yet remember that we have been the custodians of magical knowledge for over three millennia. If there are any with whom my uncle’s secrets can be trusted, then who else but his own house?”
“Then why didn’t he leave the knowledge to you, as he left his ship?” she asked.
Dalan did not answer immediately. “To be honest, I do not know,” he said in a sober voice. “The answer to that question is one of many mysteries he left behind.” He drummed his fingers on the desk for a long moment, then looked at her with a frown. “If there is nothing else, Miss Morisse, then I believe our business is concluded.” He reached into his pocket, scattering a few gold coins on the table. “Take this for your trouble, and take my advice as well. Leave Wroat and do not involve yourself in this further. I can handle it from here.”
Seren looked at the coins as they shone in the lamplight. It was more money than she had seen in some time, but she made no move to reach for them.
“I want to help,” she said.
“You?” Dalan retorted. “Why?”
“Because you need help,” she said. “You already trusted me enough to tell me what you’re after.”
“I told you very little.” Dalan laughed. “I told you enough to satiate my own meager guilt over your friend’s death, and no more. I do not need you, Seren Morisse. Return to your filthy hovel. I wish you a long, prosperous life of digging through other people’s pockets. When you meet your final knife in the dark, may you bleed out painlessly.”
“Marth killed my friend; I want to help stop him,” Seren answered, her voice growing heated from Dalan’s insults. “Maybe you can’t trust me, but you know I have nowhere else to go. You admitted you need allies. What do you have to lose?”
“This ship operates with a surprisingly small crew,” Dalan said, “so I do not require another deckhand. What use would I have with a thief?”
“Well,” Seren said, “you claim that you’ve studied some of the same clues as Marth, but that he learns more than you do?”
Dalan nodded. “I possess many copies of my uncle’s works, but I believe there is a code, a pattern that I do not yet understand. Marth must have broken this cipher already. It seems he is much more skilled in his craft than Tristam.”
“Or he has resources you don’t know about,” Seren said. “Marth knew the journal was worthless when he studied it with this.” She reached into her dress and took out a purple frosted lens, setting it on Dalan’s desk with a clink.
Dalan d’Cannith’s eyes widened as he picked up the glass and looked into its depths. “Interesting,” he said. “Where did you find this?”
“I took it from Marth’s pocket before I ran away,” she said. She plucked it from Dalan’s fingers and returned it to her pocket. “But you obviously don’t have any use for a thief.” She smiled at him primly.