The Arcanist Read Free Page B

rather than his normal elegant duelling pistol he was carrying the heavier weapon a soldier carried, and with it a heavy blade instead of a rapier. He was even carrying his helm under one arm. It was as though he was prepared to go into battle.
     
    Of course in such a battle he would do well. He wasn't just as powerful as an ox, he was quick and he knew how to handle his weapons. But so too did many others. Where Marcus excelled and what would let him win through any battle, though you would never think it to look at him, was his knowledge of tactics and strategy. Buried inside that bulky body and hidden beneath his wild mop of jet black hair there was a surprisingly sharp mind.
     
    “Go and sit by the fire and I'll see if I can find you some mulled wine.”
     
    Edouard hurried off to the kitchen, one of the many rooms in the old fort he never visited, and then started hunting through the rows of cupboards for anything that looked like a bottle of the vintner's best. He usually kept some for winter evenings. But it took some hunting. The kitchen was really Mrs. Menzies' domain and he just enjoyed the fruits of her labours and stayed out of her way the rest of the time. No doubt she would have found the bottle in a heartbeat. But she unlike him surely had the good sense to be asleep in her bed in her home. Like the rest of Breakwater.
     
    Meanwhile his brother was already standing in front of the fire place in the great hall, his boots thumping out a noisy staccato on the wooden floor as he tried to shake out the cold. Not for the first time Edouard considered the possibility of investing in more rugs. Marble tiles and wooden floor boards were cold on bare feet and noisy. But he was also acutely aware that more rugs meant more work for the servants as they had to beat them every few days, and he didn't want to have to hire any more. They just cluttered up his life and interfered with his work.
     
    They also didn't seem to understand that there were rooms in the fort he didn't want cleaned. That his workshop in the basement was cluttered and dirty for a reason. It was a workshop! It was enough for him that they did some basic cooking and cleaning and then left him to his own devices.
     
    Besides, this was a fort not a manor house. It was rough by its very nature. The floorboards were stained and treated to help them last, but not polished smooth. The walls were rough, consisting of heavy stones that had been laid and mortared together, but nothing more. And the windows were covered with sturdy cast iron grates. It was meant to be a little dirty. But trying to get the servants to understand that was nearly impossible.
     
    “So why by the Seven are you wearing that get up in the middle of the night?” Edouard called out. “We're not at war.”
     
    “Actually we just might be.”
     
    “What? – Ow!” Startled by his words, Edouard looked around the corner through the kitchen door at his brother standing in front of the fire and immediately smashed his head against the side of one of the cupboards. After that he spent a little time nursing what was sure to become a lump and cursing, before his thoughts finally returned to the important matters.
     
    “What in the seven hells are you talking about?” Even as he asked he finally spied the bottles sitting in the bottom of the larder, probably the place he should have looked first. He grabbed the nearest of them and rushed back out through the dining hall and into the great room with it before even hearing an answer.
     
    “Theria was attacked.”
     
    His brother told him the shocking news as Edouard dropped the bottle into its little steel basket above the fire and removed the stopper. For the longest while Edouard couldn't believe he was hearing him right. That bump on the head surely hadn't knocked any sense into him. But Marcus kept repeating himself, and embellishing his ludicrous tale with mammoths and magic much as he wished he wouldn't, and eventually he had