Rich Wulf - Flight of the Dying Sun

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.

The warforged stared back without a sound.

“But I babble too much,” Gavus said with a light chuckle. “Tell me more of yourself, Master Dalan. I heard you were dead, and by all accounts, Tristam Xain is your killer.”

“Dead?” Dalan said, sounding impressed. “I have never been dead before. How exciting! I never saw it coming. Well executed, Master Xain. You are a man of unexpectedly cold blood.”

“You find this humorous?” Gavus asked archly. “You are a guild master of House Cannith, a dragonmarked heir, no less. I do not think you should take such news so lightly.”

“Why should such obvious fabrications concern me?” Dalan asked. “Such clumsy lies cannot harm me. They only fool those beneath concern. After all, my own house was clearly so certain I had survived that the Baron dispatched a tribe of halfling barbarians to collect me and return me safely home. Incidentally, Chief Rossa recently died at the hands of Cyran mercenaries. The Baron will need to find a new representative to monitor the house’s interests on the plains. I recommend Koranth. He seems an able fellow.”

A nervous flicker passed behind Gavus’s eyes. Tristam glanced past the magewright, studying the statue behind him. “I would not know anything about such things,” Gavus said.

“Of course not,” Dalan replied. “And though circumstances separated me from my earnest halfling guardians, I hurried here forthwith to thank the Baron for his kindness. Do you have any estimate when he will be free to attend me?”

“I cannot say,” Gavus said mildly.

“Just as well,” Dalan said. “I saw many interesting sights upon my journey and am eager to share them with a kinsman. The halflings are such a fascinating people. Their customs are an intriguing mixture of superstition, family loyalty, and pragmatic cunning. One, in particular, may interest you. Are you familiar with the hmael ?”

“I am not,” Gavus said.

Dalan smiled mirthlessly. “I would not think you were,” he said. He chuckled, knuckling his forehead with one hand. “The translation of the term escapes me. Seren, do you remember?”

“The golden lie,” she said, eyes fixed thoughtfully on the magewright.

“Ah, yes,” Dalan said. “Thank you, Seren. A hmael is an obvious and blatant lie, crafted to draw attention away from an uncomfortable truth. Both parties know the truth, but they use the hmael as a convenient shield, allowing them to discuss the truth without embarrassment. For example, I could tell you that the Ghost Talons said that they were working for Baron Zorlan d’Cannith. The halflings believed this to be true. Yet you and I both know it to be a lie. Don’t we?”

Gavus’s eyes narrowed. “You are a rude man, Dalan.”

“You still have clay on your robes,” Seren said.

“What?” Gavus asked. He looked down at the hem of his robe, quickly hiding the gray stains among the folds.

“You have a keen eye, Seren,” Dalan said. “This is not your workshop, Gavus. By the spotless condition of the furniture in this room, I can assume you do not regularly come here to read without cleaning yourself first. Why would you rush here from your golems simply to entertain me until the Baron arrives? Any number of servants could have done that.”

“You are paranoid,” Gavus hissed.

“You have no idea,” Dalan said. “Regardless, you are no random emissary. Allow me to theorize. I think after our escape from the plains, the Ghost Talons rushed a messenger to Vulyar. Via speaker, he informed you that we would soon arrive. You posted a runner at the sky towers to watch for our vessel, but when we arrived, we gave you little time to organize a reception. You drew us here to delay us while you determined your next course of action, because you do not wish Baron Zorlan to know you have been wielding his authority unauthorized.”