The Maelstrom

Ormenheid through the Straits that previous spring.

But it was not a fat merchant who bounded onto the table; it was a squirrel monkey with tawny fur and black, intelligent eyes.

“I’d almost forgotten what it’s like to have arms and legs!” Toby crowed, swinging his limbs about and peeking back at his prehensile tail. “How luxuriant.”

Ignoring the smee’s ensuing acrobatics, David set his pack upon the table and pulled out Ms. Richter’s portfolio. When Max asked about light, David directed him to a cobwebbed corner where several lanterns had been stashed along with candles and a small container of oil.

“Why not glowspheres?” Max wondered, setting the lanterns on the table.

“No magic,” muttered David, unfolding a map and laying out several sheets of oily-looking paper. “It leaves a trace. No magic unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

Using flint and tinder, Max lit the lanterns and came around so he could look at Sir Alistair’s notes. David had already read the first parchment and handed it to Max. “Careful handling that,” the sorcerer warned. “Florentine spypaper’s very old and extremely fragile. Remember—any marks you make on its surface will be transmitted to its twin.”

Holding the sheet delicately by its edges, Max leaned forward to examine it by the lantern’s warm yellow light. The paper was covered in tiny writing and diagrams that had faded or sunk into the paper so that they initially appeared to be little more than abstract patterns and blemishes. But peering closely, Max could make out faint sentences of coded Italian, French, and Russian, along with a cross-section of a castle tower and a patent drawing for some sort of loom. Atop these faded secrets was Sir Alistair’s writing, penned in pristine script. The message was encrypted, however, and utterly nonsensical until David handed Max an oval of rose-colored glass. Once Max peered through the lens, the message became clear.

Evil is brewing—or building—in the Workshop. I’ve seen its members at royal gatherings, and while never a particularly sociable set, they appear exceedingly nervous and afraid to say or do the wrong thing. My sources say that Prusias has taken a more active interest in their endeavors and has commissioned something secret, some sort of war machine to help him conquer the other kingdoms. The demon’s malakhim have been sent to observe the Workshop’s progress, and I hear that the children of some key engineers have been “apprenticed” to loyal braymas throughout Blys as a means of keeping their parents industrious.The Workshop itself is a fortress, and I fear that direct communication—much less infiltration—has become impossible. We must pass along information and gather intelligence using less direct means. Our opportunity may reside with an influential smuggler—a woman who lives in a settlement called Piter’s Folly. She is called Madam Petra, but you may remember her as Petra Kosa—the Olympic medalist who later became a cause celebre in the art world. She’s an interesting, exceedingly capable woman who has been very savvy at positioning herself with various factions to become a major player within the region. No one can build or buy anything near Piter’s Folly without her approval. Even the goblins pay her tribute when they drive their caravans past on the Ravenswood Spur. She’d be a valuable ally and may be able to contact the Workshop on our behalf or provide intelligence on their initiatives.We must tread carefully, however. She has spurned our previous efforts to develop a relationship for fear that Prusias will learn of it and crush both her and her enterprise. The immediate and highly public nature of these rejections suggests that she suspects informers among her staff. She will not meet directly with strangers, and her assistants screen all of her appointments and visitors. In order to speak candidly with Madam Petra, I believe we must masquerade as someone with whom she is familiar and already does business. We must smuggle ourselves in to see the smuggler. While she trades with other human settlements and some demons, she also does a brisk business with the wealthier goblin clans, including the Blackhorns, Highboots, and Broadbrims.…“Ah,” said Max, glancing at David. “That’s why you want to go to Broadbrim Mountain. You think Skeedle can help us get in to see the smuggler.”

His roommate nodded and handed over the second sheet. Putting the first aside, Max took up the decrypting lens once again.

Piter’s Folly is located in the duchy of Bryllbatha near the borders with Raikos and Holbrymn. It is named after its founder, who was ridiculed for building so remote a shelter when the troubles began. Piter is deceased (officially, he drowned; unofficially, Madam Petra had him killed), but what started as his own private haven has grown into one of the largest human settlements in Blys. There’s no official census, of course, but my contacts estimate that several thousand people live there, protected by the island’s vast moat of surrounding lake and an expensive arrangement with the duchy’s braymas. The Ravenswood Spur is the closest road. It cuts through the old Carpathians and passes close to the settlement on its way to feed into the Iron Highway that runs east toward Aamon’s kingdom. It’s a notoriously dangerous stretch of country, and the Agents must be wary of criminals—particularly as war looms and food grows scarce.In addition to bandits, there are also Prusias’s spies to consider. Prusias trusts few of his vassals and fears treachery at every turn. The kingdom is riddled with informants, and it is unlikely that the conspicuous use of magic or force will go unnoticed. A low profile is best.While Aamon’s armies threaten from the east, perhaps the greatest danger and most unpredictable element is Yuga. You may have heard that the demoness has devoured most of her duchy and has been encroaching upon other territories. Piter’s Folly is not far from Yuga’s own borders or from Raikos, where she is reputed to be feeding. The more skittish settlers are preparing to flee the island and move west.This is a dangerous assignment, but an essential one. We must open up a communications channel to the Workshop and learn whatever we can about Prusias’s war machine. Perhaps Aamon and Rashaverak will eliminate Prusias for us, but they are just as likely to turn upon Rowan themselves. We must prepare for war in any event.Sol Invictus, Alistair Wesley

When Max finished, he stood and gazed over David’s shoulder at the map he was studying. Piter’s Folly was far away—almost a thousand miles across what had once been called the Alps and Carpathians. And winter was nearly here.

“It will take us weeks to get there,” Max estimated. “And that’s assuming the roads and bridges are open. Couldn’t we have tunneled closer?”

“Unfortunately, no,” replied David. “It’s not an easy task to create a link between our room and a distant destination. I only have several such outposts in Blys. This outpost is closest to Broadbrim Mountain, but I have another that’s nearer to Piter’s Folly. If we’re lucky, we can use it to return to Rowan.”

“What do you mean, ‘if we’re lucky’?” asked Toby anxiously.

“Assuming it still exists.” David shrugged. “The locations are out of the way, but we’re entering a war zone. There’s nothing to say that an army hasn’t destroyed it or refugees haven’t taken up residence. The outpost is in Raikos—close to the border between Blys and Dun.”

“And Yuga,” Max reflected grimly. “Can we use this outpost to jump to the other?”

“They don’t work that way,” answered David. “Each linkage requires a lot of time and energy, and I didn’t have enough of either to establish connections between the outposts. Each tunnel is like a spoke that connects back to the observatory, but they don’t connect to each other.”

“Well,” said Toby, “I suppose you’ll have to conjure up a horse and carriage like you did when we stormed old Prusias’s castle, eh?”

“Sorry,” replied David. “No magic. Until we reach Broadbrim Mountain and can hitch up with a goblin cart, we’re either walking or …”

The squirrel monkey’s face drooped.

“I’m to be a steed, aren’t I?”

“It would be faster,” Max reflected. “A nice big horse with room for two. It’s just sixty miles or so, Toby, and the switchbacks to the Broadbrim guardstones aren’t too steep. I know this country.”

“Well, goody for you,” replied Toby acidly. “I suppose when we’re in territory that I know, I’ll be welcome to sit on your back and cry ‘giddy up!’ and ‘whoa, there!’ for a day or two. It’s humiliating. I’m a spy, not a steed!”

“Can you be both?” asked David plaintively.

They headed north. Toby had become a shaggy black horse, and as the disgruntled smee cantered up the road, Max found his sense of adventure returning. The air was cold but bracing, bending the tall grass and the wild thistle as winter settled over the land. The sun was rising, trying to peek from behind a jigsaw canopy of crowding storm clouds. Occasionally its golden rays streamed through to warm the gray landscape and give it a dreamlike quality. The road was empty; the only sounds were those of the wind and the steady clip of hoofs upon the ancient Roman stones.