He hadn’t been sleeping much lately. Things had been quiet and peaceful in his neck of the woods for quite some time. Not since the business at Arragones’ estate had there been even a whisper of a worry of a need for the Ravens banners to join the armies of Newhope. Things were different now. Stonetooth made things different and though Key’s Crossing was far from any frontlines, you’d have to be a fool to not see how this war laid its fingers across the whole of Mardrun.
Each day construction continued on the new walls that surrounded the city, brick by brick they cast a longer shadow over the low lying homes at their foundations. From his second story apartment on a hill, Cordyn would still be able to see over the wall and out to the ocean. The same could not be said for those who now lived in the ever-growing embrace of its defensive shade. Sure, in this moment of worry and warfare they were happy to trade their ocean views for the protection granted by cool, thick stone, but would that always be the case? Would a day come that peace once again came to Mardrun? If a time came that the people no longer felt the need for the wall’s protection, would they then start to see it instead as the warden of their new prison?
Cordyn had spent years with his nose buried in ledgers and city plans. Sleepless nights were spent alongside trade and labor unions and professors and barkeeps trying to find how to best serve the people of Key’s Crossing. He’d worked hard to try to build the city into a special place where all were given the opportunity to make themselves how they wished and live the lives they were meant to. A city where things were not divided by class structures, incomes, and inheritance. As he watched the wall he commissioned grow day-by-day and its shadow swallow more and more homes, he knew he’d failed. There would now be two immutable classes within the city: those who could see over the wall, and those who lived beneath it.
After long days in planning meetings Cordyn would come home and lie on his bed, wrapped in thoughts of what’s to come. One day, when people inevitably grew tired of living in a shadow, would he stand firm by his values and offer to trade his home and move to the depths? Or would hypocrisy sink its barbed talons into his heart? It’s easy to say that you’ll do the right thing before the question becomes real and much much harder to actually do it when the time comes. Cordyn knew this much and as such was usually unable to quiet his worrying mind. On nights like this there was only one thing that could ease him.
***
Cordyn reached over and tapped an iron bar set into the wall near his bed and an arcane lamp hanging from the ceiling eased to life. He shot to his feet and crossed his room to shutter his windows. His neighbors had been clear with him and their words echoed in his head, “We don’t care what you get up to at night, but if you let that light shine in our windows again then we’re going to drag you out of that apartment and tar you in the streets.”
Cordyn took a seat at his work desk and pulled open a drawer full of thin metal bars and wooden splinters. To the average eye they looked nothing more than castoff and refuse, but to the trained senses of an arcanist they hummed with potential. Most enchanters that Cordyn spoke with focused on the large, charismatic endeavors that could be achieved by working with full ingots and planks of infused materials, but Cordyn’s love centered not on enchanting weapons and armors, but in pulling the fantastical from the smallest of scraps and the crafting and inventing of the small things that could better your everyday: the things that brought magic to the average person. When he closed his eyes he could still see the smiles and awe on the faces of families the first night they illuminated the arcane lamps in the night market district and when he really tried, he could imagine some of those smiling faces belonged to his parents too. They’d be proud of who he’d become. Wouldn’t they? The shadow of the wall loomed, casting darkness over his parents’ faces.
He pushed the thoughts away and let his focus shift to the open drawer. He absently let his hand glide over the assortment of scraps; his eyes wouldn’t help here. Eventually his hand settled over a thin barb of infused iron, he could feel it gently pulsing sympathetically with the mana in his own body. When working with such delicate pieces of material you’d often have to find the ones that were suited to the task as opposed to how you are able to force and mold the larger pieces to your will. Cordyn took the piece from the tray and laid it on his notebook.
The book was laden with scrawlings that would look half mad to a scholar and incomprehensible to a layman. The writing was a nigh unintelligible blend of schools of thought. Deep arcane mathematics prodded at the very mechanisms of magic and weaving, but their phrases were written almost poetically in the vocabulary of a trained alchemist and blowhard who loves to hear himself speak. Musings copied themselves forwards and backwards, weaving across the page in a circuitous dance as if they themselves were threads of mana to be played with. Sigils and symbols and diagrams of whirling arcane weavery packed into the margins. All under the heading “What does it mean to push?”
Cordyn read over his notes again before turning to a small object on his desk. It was a curious thing. A passing glance would tell you that it was an alembic, a piece of an alchemist’s distillation apparatus, but to lay your hand on it would disabuse you of that notion. It was thick and cold and iron. Cordyn took the object in his hand and turned it over a few times. He was sure that tonight would be the night he would crack it. He spent the next few hours delicately etching the surface of the iron thing.
When he finished the object was awash with intricate weaving patterns and set into its hull was a slot shaped to snugly accept the infused iron barb sitting on his notebook. Cordyn took a deep breath as he gently laid the barb into its new home and delicately tapped it into its setting and then he sat with this new object in a deep weaver’s meditation. His mind danced through arcane currents and overtime he conquered them and forced them into shape all the while he tamed the magical structure of the item in his hands. After some time reality and intention came into harmony. Cordyn opened his eyes and rolled the object around in his hands, checking it for any stress marks or fractures. When he was properly satisfied he ran his thumb over the infused barb.
With a gentle whine the iron thing came to life. A force began to press itself out from the open end of the thing, strong enough to catch one off guard, but not so strong as to shove them from their feet. Cordyn smiled and ran his finger over the infused barb once again; the small object settled back into an inert state. Without hesitation Cordyn rushed to his closet and pulled out a long coat. He dressed into a semi-presentable state, shoved his new object into his satchel and left his apartment.
The streets of Keys Crossing had become a marvel to see at night. Gentle, lowly powered arcane lamps lined the streets and bathed them in a pale blue glow, enough to help people walking in the night without a lantern, but not so much as to offend anyone sleeping. Then there was the Night Market District. Here the lamps were not so easy. This whole district was bathed in enough light that one could sit in the central park and play cards well past midnight and not once have to strain their eyes. It was also home to The Tin Whistle Tavern.
Cordyn threw open the doors to The Tin Whistle and without so much as a good evening, made his way toward the staff dumbwaiter that was used to send meals upstairs to the guest rooms. He set to work tinkering with the lower pulley, delicately fitting his new device to the hub with a specially made bracket. The bartender looked over his shoulder.
“Evening, Magistrate.”
“Good Evening, Margaret.” He did not look away from his work
“That the thing you’ve been talking about?” She did her best to see what he was doing.
“I sure hope so.”
“Don’t put any holes in my walls.” She turned away and went back to the bar counter before he could respond.
Cordyn continued to work for a few more minutes and when he felt the device was properly fitted he turned to Margaret.
“Margaret, my dear, witness the future!”
With that Cordyn ran his finger over the small infused barb on the device. It whined to life and began to exert force from its open end and slowly, painfully slowly, it began to push against its bracket and drive the wheel of the pulley. The dumbwaiter began to lift under the device’s power at a rate of nearly one story per half hour. Cordyn beamed with joy and turned to see Margaret’s expression and found her nonplussed. She could tell that Cordyn found this all very exciting, but to her eyes this new device was far more useless than just hoisting the dumbwaiter by hand.
“So? What do you think!?”
“Well, it’s a bit slow isn’t it?” She tried her very best to look supportive.
“Well yes, but that’s just the steps toward progress! Clearly there are some inefficiencies in my design, but look at this proof of concept!” Cordyn could not hide the childlike glee in his voice, “Why in fact, give it six or maybe seven more developmental generations and by then maybe it will move even faster than you!”
“Well then,” Margaret ran her finger over the infused barb, the device eased back to inertness. “You can bring it back when you’re on generation eight.” She slid the device out of its bracket and dropped it into Cordyn’s hands. “But for now, get out from behind my bar.”
Cordyn smiled and slid the device into his satchel and as he walked out from behind the bar he grabbed a tall bottle of dark ale. He held it above his head as he opened the front door and stepped out into the street. “Just throw it on my tab, Margaret!” Once outside Cordyn sat for a moment, bathed in the light of arcane lamps and for the first time in a while, content in feeling that with enough work and enough progress, maybe one day no one will have to live in the shadow of a wall.