“The Legacy is some sort of ticket to promotion to him with his house,” Seren said.
“Well, it would be ironic, wouldn’t it?” Pherris said. “It was Ashrem’s work that crippled Dalan’s career.”
“Crippled?”
Pherris sighed. He cast another look toward Dalan’s cabin, but this time his gray eyes shone with sympathy. “It’s a sticky sort of story, all blood and politics,” he said. “Let’s just say that old Ash earned his share of enemies in House Cannith right before the end. He was such a genius that few would ever really oppose him, but when he vanished, his rivals shifted their resentment onto Dalan.”
“Dalan said Ashrem disappeared?” Seren asked. “I was told he died.”
“Died, vanished, it’s all the same,” Pherris said. “Near the end of the war, Ashrem packed up his flagship, the Dying Sun, and left Zilargo for Metrol, the capital of Cyre. Kiris went with him. She told me that Ash intended to make peace with his family, to make peace with everyone-whatever that meant. That was two days before the Day of Mourning. Ashrem’s ship hasn’t been seen since, but House Cannith proclaimed him dead. That was bad news for Dalan, as it meant all of Ashrem’s enemies had to find someone new to focus their hatred on. Dalan isn’t exactly popular in his House these days.”
“Hard to believe,” she said wryly. “He’s such a charmer.”
Pherris’s bushy brows furrowed. “You’d be surprised,” he answered. “Dalan is coarse when he has to be, but he has a way of getting what he wants out of people. It’s to his credit that despite all his enemies, he managed to remain the Tinkers’ Guildmaster in Wroat.”
Seren cocked her head at the gnome, surprised by the words of praise.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” the captain said quickly. “I don’t like Dalan much, but even I won’t deny his talents. Dalan is clever; he knows how people think. He knows how to make them think. He knows what you’re about to say before you say it. He knows how to make you change your mind, and you’ll believe it was your own idea. But for a Cannith, even that gets you only so far. Wordplay and manipulation have a place, but the Makers want results. Other than a few dragonmark tricks, Dalan has no magical talent. He knew if he wanted to earn a place in his House it would be through his uncle’s accomplishments, but he had no chance to understand Ashrem’s work alone. So he sought out Ashrem’s apprentice.”
“Dalan said that Ashrem’s colleagues and students were missing or dead,” Seren said.
“Oh, not all of them,” Pherris said. “Just the most important ones. Kiris vanished with Ashrem. Orren Thardis disappeared not long after. Bishop Llaine Grove and Emil Harek were murdered last year. Norra Cais has been missing for months. Those five were the ones who helped Ashrem with his most critical research. Tristam was just an apprentice, and he left Ashrem two months before the Day of Mourning.” Pherris frowned at Seren. “Ashrem refused to sponsor Tristam for membership in House Cannith, and Tristam resigned in outrage. The boy came to work in my shipyard after that, and Omax followed him like he always does. Just on about a year ago, Dalan came to us with his grand quest. Tristam was eager for a chance to prove himself, to reclaim his master’s work and earn a place in the House of Making.” Pherris sighed. “Poor Tristam. He’s a bright lad, but he’s such an idiot.”
“I’ve had somewhat the same impression of him,” she said.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Pherris said. “So much potential ruined by so much doubt. Makes me want to toss him over the rail and be done with him some days. But he has his moments. Omax is proof of that.”
“Did Tristam build the warforged?” Seren asked.
Pherris laughed. “No, no, no,” he said, then paused. “Well, actually, yes, I suppose he did but only in a sense. Nobody builds warforged anymore, not since the end of the war. No, Tristam saved Omax’s life, gave him purpose when he had none. Beyond that, I’m not at liberty to say.”
“More secrets,” Seren said ruefully.
“Not my secret to share,” Pherris said. “Some of us prefer to leave the past where it is. Omax follows Tristam because the boy gave him a chance to become something better. Omax is not what he used to be. He’s some sort of holy man now, calls himself a seeker on a path of enlightenment. If you want to know more, you’ll have to ask them yourself.”
“Tristam doesn’t seem an inspiring sort,” she said.
“Well, like I said, he has his moments,” Pherris countered. “Everyone on this ship has their moments. I suppose you do, too.”
Seren stood up languidly and frowned at the gnome. “How do you know for sure?”
He only laughed and nodded at the figurehead. “Because she likes you,” he said.
Seren looked at the gnome for a long moment. He only smiled at her intently.
“How far to Black Pit?” she asked, changing the subject as she looked out at the clouds once again.
“Six hundred and eighty-two miles,” he said.
Seren looked back at him, eyes wide. Her home village was almost as far from Wroat, and the trip had taken her a month on foot. “How long will we be airborne?” she asked.
“Three days,” he said. Seren said nothing for several moments, and Pherris shrugged uncomfortably. “I’m allowing time to take on supplies, of course. I don’t see any point in rushing.”
Seren looked back down at the clouds. There was no sense of such speed, only a timeless sea of sky. The airship actually felt as if she were moving very slowly. The tiny black shape of Blizzard shot up out of a cloud and dove back down. “I’m going to lie down again,” she said.
“Suit yourself.”
She climbed down the ladder into the cargo bay. She noticed Omax sitting among the piled crates. She stepped forward carefully, trying not to make any sound, studying the warforged’s massive shape. He looked disturbingly human. His head was almost featureless, still capped with the incongruous woolen hat. Flesh and bone were replaced by sculpted adamantine metal and polished dark wood. Yet the creation was not flawless. As she stared at him, she saw a network of dents and scars laced through his body, a history of battle and conflict. Omax’s head was bowed. The construct repeated a low chant, almost a whisper, and Seren moved closer to hear. To her surprise she recognized the words. It was a hymn often sung by the monks of Dol Arrah in the fishermen’s quarter-the prayer of a warrior seeking redemption.
The song stopped.
“I am sorry, Miss Morisse, I did not notice you,” he said. “Did you need something?”
“No,” she said. “Sorry to disturb you.”
His blue eyes pulsed as he peered over one shoulder.
Seren returned to her cabin, leaving the warforged in peace. The door of Tristam’s cabin stood open now, and the hall was filled with acrid, oily smoke. Fearing a fire, Seren looked inside. It was as small as her cabin, but where hers was empty this one was stuffed with clutter. It featured a small pallet and a table, but also contained a narrow bookcase stuffed with leather-bound tomes, loose journals, and yellowing scrolls. A model airship hung from the ceiling, a perfect reproduction of Karia Naille with an elemental ring sculpted of silvered steel. The table was covered with vials, crystals, and other pieces of alchemical equipment. The oily smoke rose from a bubbling retort filled with clear fluid. A lumpy clay man the size of a small cat sat on the table nearby, waving the smoke toward the nearby porthole as best it could. Tristam sat on the pallet nearby, reading a book, seemingly unconcerned.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Distillation,” Tristam said, peering up at her over his spectacles. “I’m purifying some basilisk humors I picked up in the city. They’re useful for potions of leaping, though a lot of people don’t like the chalky flavor. If you mix it with a bit of rum, it’s fine. I apologize about the smoke; it’s sort of a necessary …”
“No, that,” she said, interrupting him.
He followed her eyes to the clay man. “Oh it’s a homunculus,” he said. It looked up at Seren briefly and returned to waving away the smoke. “A construct. It helps me in my work.”