“Farzin,” Zibiah’s voice was flat, devoid of its usual acid. “Were you waiting for me?”
Farzin unfurled himself from the crate, fluid as spilled quicksilver. His dark eyes, usually so earnest, held a predatory glint Zibiah had never noticed before. “Of course, Zibi. I heard about… the incident. And Rostam. Such a shame.” He gestured vaguely towards the overflowing bag of gold. “A small investment, to help you get back on your feet.”
Zibiah eyed the gold. Enough to start a small principality, let alone an artificer’s workshop. “What’s the catch, Farzin? You’ve never been this altruistic since you tried to sell me a rust-golem disguised as a tea kettle.”
He chuckled, a warm, reassuring sound that grated on her nerves. “No catch, just loyalty. And maybe… a minor request. A partnership, maybe? I’ve always believed in your genius, Zibi.”
Her gaze narrowed. Before she could dissect his too-convenient timing, a distant, muffled shriek echoed from the lower levels of the Citadel, followed by a chorus of raucous laughter. “What in the Seven Sands was that?”
Farzin’s smile widened. “Ah, that. It seems your… wedding gift… performed admirably last night. Reports are flooding the Sun-Dial Citadel. The ‘Ever-Blooming Matrimonial Urn of Eternal Regret’ apparently redecorated Rostam’s master bedroom with an impressive display of scorching runes, turning his prized Ghul-silk draperies into carbonized lace and singeing his pet sand-weasel’s whiskers.”
Zibiah blinked, then a slow, triumphant grin stretched across her face. “My compliments to its internal combustion module. And the passive-aggressive commentary sub-routine, I assume?”
“Indeed. It apparently informed him, in a voice described as ‘a perpetually disappointed grandmother,’ that his aesthetic choices were as poor as his judgment in fiancées.” Farzin tilted his head. “The entire Vahdat family is apparently in an uproar. Guild Elders are openly mocking him.”
Zibiah let out a genuine, unburdened laugh, the kind that made her chest ache with release. Rostam, the man who had traded her for a wilting flower, was now a public spectacle. It was a sweeter victory than any duel of wits. “Well, that’s one less distraction. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Farzin, I have an empire to build. Alone.” She ignored his slight flinch, the brief flicker of something dark in his eyes. “I need to acquire some prime vitrified silica for my galleon's propulsion manifold. The Grand Exchange won’t wait.”
The Grand Exchange of Oraz was a riot of color, sound, and the sharp scent of exotic spices mixed with ozone and burnt metal. Air-carriages zipped overhead, merchants hawked their wares from gravity-defying stalls, and mechanical street performers danced to the rhythm of clanking gears. Zibiah navigated the throng with practiced ease, her focus unwavering. She needed Al-Khamsa vitrified slag, famed for its unparalleled thermo-alchemical conductivity and resilience to solar radiation. Only a few veins in the Obsidian Wastes produced it, making it exorbitantly rare.
She located the stall of old trader Jabari, a wizened merchant whose beard was as white as dried borax. A single, shimmering ingot of the coveted glass rested on a velvet cushion. “Trader Jabari,” Zibiah greeted, her voice cutting through the din. “I’m here for the iridescent ingot.”
The merchant peered at her over his spectacles. “Ah, the White Moonlight returns! Been too long, Zibiah Tariq. The city has missed your… unique brand of chaos.” He gestured with a gnarled hand. “It’s already got a bid, I’m afraid. A rather substantial one.”
Zibiah raised an eyebrow. “How substantial?”
Before the merchant could answer, a voice, smooth as polished obsidian and laced with a hint of amusement, cut in. “Substantial enough to outbid any artificer who’s spent the last year nursing a broken heart instead of honing their craft, I assure you.”
Zibiah turned slowly. Standing beside the ingot was Qasim Al-Masri, his dark robes embroidered with the intricate star-patterns of the Celestial Forge Guild. He was devastatingly handsome, with eyes that held the depth of the night sky and a smile that promised both mischief and mayhem. He had swept three consecutive Sun-Dial Artisanship Awards during her sabbatical. He held a small, intricate device in his hand, casually examining it – a portable aetheric scanner, no doubt for analyzing the very glass she sought.
“Qasim Al-Masri,” Zibiah said, her tone dripping with mock sweetness. “Still slumming it in the lower tiers of the Bazaar, I see. I thought an adept of your… *purported* caliber would be commissioning entire caravans, not haggling over scraps.”
Qasim’s smile didn’t falter. “And Zibiah Tariq. Still making grand pronouncements while your workshop gathers more dust than a forgotten tomb. Or perhaps you’re just here to buy a new hairpin after the last one was chewed up by a brass-hound?”
The jab hit a little too close. “That brass-hound,” she retorted, “is now a perfectly functional, albeit slightly cross-eyed, tea trolley. Proof of my resourcefulness, unlike certain technicians who rely solely on their family’s ancient guild connections.”
“Resourcefulness, or sheer desperation to prove you still possess some semblance of skill?” Qasim countered, his eyes glinting. He tapped the ingot. “This block is critical for high-efficiency propulsion drives. Something a rusty prodigy might struggle to optimize.”
“Are you suggesting my skills are rusty, Al-Masri?” Zibiah’s voice dropped, a dangerous edge creeping in. “Because I can assure you, they’re merely… well-aged. Like a fine vintage of concentrated plasma.”
“Then prove it,” Qasim said, his voice lowering too, the amusement replaced by a challenge. He leaned closer. “I need this glass. For a project far more significant than a petty wedding gift or a vanity airship. My bid stands. Unless… you want to make this interesting.”
Zibiah knew what he meant. The public build-off. A spectacle of raw skill and improvisation. A crowd was already gathering, sensing the tension. “Interesting, you say? What did you have in mind, Qasim? A contest of who can construct the most elaborate paper airplane?”
“No,” Qasim said, his gaze sweeping the now-hushed crowd. “Vendor, bring us a selection of raw materials. One hour. We each construct a functional micro-propulsion drive using this specimen. The crowd, and your discerning eye, will judge.” He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “And I’ll double the price for the winner, should I lose. I’m quite confident.” He only needed the glass.
“Confident, or foolhardy?” Zibiah scoffed, but a thrill coursed through her. This was it. A chance to show Oraz that Zibiah Tariq was back, and sharper than ever. “Fine. But if I win, you’ll not only hand over the glass, you’ll publicly admit that your ‘Celestial Forge’ guild produces nothing but overpriced glorified toasters.”
Qasim’s lips quirked. “Deal.”
The next hour was a blur of furious activity. Jabari, grinning, provided a selection of raw aetherium conduits, shimmering flux-coils, and various alchemical catalysts. Zibiah worked with a focused intensity, her hands flying over the materials. She ignored Qasim’s own rapid, precise movements at the adjacent workbench. He was building something sleek, efficient, a masterpiece of conventional engineering. Zibiah, however, felt a surge of inspiration. Rostam’s pathetic speech, Farzin’s unnerving smile, the brass-hound attack – they all coalesced into a singular, defiant vision.
She didn’t just build a power core; she crafted a statement. Her design was unorthodox, a swirling vortex of magnetized flux-coils encapsulated by the silicate casing, humming with latent energy. It wasn’t just efficient; it was *beautiful*, glowing with an internal, vibrant blue light that pulsed like a living heart. She even incorporated a miniature, self-adjusting harmonic resonator, ensuring peak performance under any atmospheric pressure.
Qasim finished first, his core a marvel of balanced power and compact design. The crowd murmured in appreciation. Then Zibiah unveiled hers. A collective gasp rippled through the marketplace. Her core didn't merely hum; it sang, a melodic thrum that resonated in the air, causing the very dust motes to dance. It was visibly more powerful, more elegant, and utterly unconventional.
Jabari, after careful inspection and a few prods with a testing wand, declared Zibiah the undisputed winner. “Unparalleled thermal regulation! Unheard-of aetheric conversion! Zibiah Tariq, you have not lost your touch. In fact, you’ve found a new one!”
Zibiah met Qasim’s gaze, a triumphant smile on her face. He, for his part, looked genuinely impressed, a rare expression on his usually unruffled features. He picked up the amber-tinted ingot, its surface cool beneath his fingers, and presented it to her. “As promised, Artificer Tariq.” His voice was low, for her ears alone. “And my compliments. It seems your hands are anything but rusty.”
He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear, and his next words sent a cold dread through her triumph. “Though you should still consider investing in better security. The control runes on those brass-hounds that attacked you yesterday… they bore the Vahdat family crest.”