Lord of Secrets

by Breanna Teintze

  My scrying was consistent, though. Every night I found a stone and wrote a divination spiral with my carefully rationed paint, and every night the magic spat out Cor Daddan, north-west and Keir. It also wrapped me in a slick of claustrophobic fear and frustration that I took to mean Brix. We were close to the doll, and getting closer every day.

  I came out of my spell on the tenth evening, panting, the stench of blood and incense and death vivid in my nostrils. I rubbed my hands against each other, stiff with cold, and glanced across the camp to where Lorican was moving in the brush, looking for firewood.

  ‘He didn’t hear you,’ Jaern said, from beside me.

  I startled. Jaern sat cross-legged just inches from where I had written my spiral. His face was lifted towards the sky, unblinking black eyes reflecting the sunset. Our camp was nothing more than a place off the road where Lorican had reckoned we could hide the campfire, which he had insisted on making no larger than a dinner plate. Miles of yellow grass and grey bushes whispered around us, moving in the wind.

  ‘Hear me do what?’ I said, hoping I didn’t know.

  Jaern didn’t bother to look at me. ‘Call her.’

  I scuffed my hand across the flat rock I was kneeling over and wiped out the spiral, my heart hammering in my chest. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any point wondering why you were sitting there and listening to me cast.’

  ‘As it happens, infant, I had other business this evening. Your divinatory babblings, like your unfailing sarcasm, were merely a windfall.’ He exhaled. ‘So you’re still thinking about her. You’re persistent, Cricket, I’ll give you that.’

  ‘I don’t like it when you call me that,’ I said, ‘and I don’t believe you have any other business.’

  ‘You’re not the only one who can write a divining spiral.’ He stopped, waiting for me to ask him what he’d been divining for. He wouldn’t answer if I did; he’d make me order him, and take the opportunity to spy on my thoughts. The pattern had got tedious over the last few days. ‘Well?’ he said.

  I knuckled grit out of my eyes. ‘Well, how many hells can I be sent to for kicking a god in the balls?’

  A snort of genuine, surprised laughter broke from him. ‘If I’m the one sending you?’ He tilted his head to one side, considering. ‘Damn you to all of them, Gray. You’re inconvenient. You’re young, you practise a certain way. I know things that you don’t.’ He finally looked at me. ‘Which I could teach you, you know.’

  ‘At what cost?’ I said.

  ‘Ah. See?’ he said, softly. ‘There it is, suspicion. That’s the reason you and I have difficulty.’

  ‘What news from the magic?’ Lorican strode up, dropped a scant armful of bleached, dry wood beside the fire and squatted on his heels. ‘Are we close?’

  ‘It’s a caravan of some kind,’ I said, mindful of the visions I’d had where I spent the whole time with the taste of trail dust. ‘Wagons, a lot of people. And yes, we’re close. Less than a mile. If we go tonight, we could have the doll by morning, but I can’t just show up and demand it from them like a highwayman. In a camp that size, there will be guards.’ I hesitated. ‘I could try to use my licence sigil. Guild wizards have special legal privileges, and if the doll is still with this caravan, presumably the Guild hasn’t shown up to take possession of it yet.’

  ‘It’s not a bad thought,’ Lorican said, warily. ‘If we travel the mile tonight, in the dark, then they’re off-balance and unlikely to have an easy way to check your pedigree. You throw your weight around and demand to see the doll on behalf of the Guildlord. We can say I’m your servant. It could work, as long as we’re quick, focused and you can keep a muzzle on him.’ He nodded at Jaern.

  ‘Muzzle?’ Jaern stood. He had a manic look, like when a cat decides to hunt ghosts in the middle of the night. ‘That’s cute.’

  ‘Stop it,’ I said. ‘Just, stop, and let me . . .’ I flexed my hands and shoulders, still on my knees, still half-caught in the toxicity of my spell. Something dripped from my nose. I touched it. ‘Let me think,’ I said, staring down at my red-stained fingers.

  ‘Is the woman still with this caravan?’ Jaern said. ‘It’s just a thought, you understand, but it seems to me that she’d be able to point out that you’re not a Guild wizard with relative quickness.’

  I had sensed echoes of disappointment and frustration in every divining session, but that didn’t mean Brix was there. It was a cleromantic hallucination, an artefact of my own emotions interacting with the vision. Why would she stay, after all, when her bargain was concluded? That I wanted her to be there badly enough to skew the spell was disturbing, certainly, but at the moment that didn’t matter. I couldn’t let it matter.

  I scrubbed my wrist under my nose and got to my feet. ‘No. She isn’t there. That won’t be a problem.’

  ‘You’re not all right,’ Lorican said, quietly. ‘Gray, we don’t have to decide tonight. There’re still a few days of prairie land left to travel. We could do this in the morning, or tomorrow—’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Anything could happen by tomorrow. The Guild could send a runner to get the doll. The caravan could move on.’ The important thing was that I knew Keir was at Cor Daddan. This had to work. ‘It has to be tonight.’

  *

  We rode, single file, and reached the caravan camp just as the last rays of sun had disappeared behind the horizon. The stench hit me in the face first, before I even saw the light of the campfires. Sweat mixed with animal pens, sewage and decay, ten times worse than the average village-stink. It reeked of suffering, years of anguish soaked into the canvas of the tents. This was no spice caravan – it was a floating slave camp.

  My stomach churned. If we hadn’t already ridden into the light from two massive braziers, I would have been tempted to turn around. I could pretend a lot of things, but acting like a Guild slave buyer?

  ‘Halt!’ A figure peeled away from the silhouette of the tents. ‘State your business!’

  There were actually several figures, and there was too much metal. The foot soldiers carried naked swords, chain mail gleaming on shoulders and at throats. The speaker – a man, judging by the voice – rode a massive piebald horse and stopped just short of running against my smaller roan. ‘This is in the Makesh camp territory. Who gave you permission to be here?’ His sword tip came around to hover near the level of my stomach.

  ‘Get that away from me.’ I slapped it sideways. It wasn’t time for courtesy. ‘I’m the Guild liaison and I will not be insulted.’

  ‘Mages’ Guild?’ said the man.

  ‘No,’ I snapped. ‘The Guild of Wandering Tent-Peg Makers. Do you know of another guild that has business with your house?’ I pushed my sleeve up and held out my sigil-tattooed wrist, my heart banging against my eardrums. One of the others was holding a lance with its tip a few inches from Lorican’s throat.

  The man sat silent for a heartbeat or so, then sheathed his sword and nudged his horse forwards. The fellow was huge, as broad across the chest as a bear, with a scar from his lower lip to his chin. His black hair was cut short, almost, but not quite, like a soldier. A mercenary, then.

  He seized my wrist in one beefy hand and pulled it towards the light from the braziers, squinting at the sigil. His other hand hovered near the hilt of his sword.

  I tensed, but he released me.

  ‘Apologies,’ he said. ‘We weren’t expecting the Guild officer for another couple of days. Master Makesh will want to know why the plan has changed. My name is Gedion.’ He glanced behind me at Jaern, who sat like an ivory statue against the night. ‘Is that one your slave?’

  ‘As is the other.’ The words tasted bad, but I couldn’t grimace. ‘I suggest getting your weapons away from them and taking me to Master Makesh. Am I to be kept waiting all night?’

  ‘No.’ Gedion reined his horse sideways. ‘Come with me, sir.’

  Someone’s wail sliced through the darkness – monotonous, disconsolate keening, a child screaming for its mother or a mother
screaming for her child, I couldn’t tell which. It caught me like a hook.

  ‘Damn whiny bitch,’ muttered the mercenary.

  I forced my hand to unclench, but the injustice still rubbed at me, like a twist of wire against my skin. No wonder Brix had been willing to do anything to get her baby sister out of this world. I wanted to burn it down. Given the right reagents, I could.

  Don’t gag. Analyse. You can burn it down later, if you live through the night.

  It seemed like an odd place for a slave camp, halfway to nowhere, and judging from the oxen I saw picketed, it wasn’t a small private order being transported to some backwoods lord. I had got to twenty-seven tents, canopies and ramshackle-covered wagons when Gedion reached out and grabbed my horse’s bridle.

  ‘Master Makesh is in the blue pavilion, there.’ Gedion pulled his horse and mine to a stop and gestured. ‘I’ll have your slaves taken to your quarters – just ask when you’re done speaking to the Master and someone will show you your tent.’

  Wonderful. Lorican had fallen into the role of my ‘slave’ pretty easily, but Jaern had ridden abreast of me, not bothering to hide his amusement. It didn’t seem likely he’d go nicely. I gathered my resolve and looked at him.

  ‘Wait for me there,’ I said, and felt the tug as my will conquered his, as Jaern had another ramble through my mind.

  Jaern fluttered his eyelashes at me. ‘Of course.’

  I got out of my saddle and handed my reins to Lorican. ‘Take care,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, sir, I’ll see to the horses, and have them ready for you.’ Lorican met my eyes for a moment. ‘I’ll be watching for you, sir.’

  Gedion dismounted and handed his reins to one of the other mercenaries. They all rode away as he led me towards the pavilion.

  It smelled worse at ground level, disgusting odours swirling and mingling with a puff of spiced air that wafted from the open flap of the blue tent. The spices didn’t help even a little. It was like someone had dropped a bottle of perfume down a latrine.

  ‘Officer!’

  I blinked. I don’t know what I had been expecting, but it wasn’t the garish figure in peacock-blue silk who came rushing out from the doorway. This couldn’t be Makesh, could it? The man responsible for all the pain around me?

  ‘My apologies!’ Makesh grabbed my hands with both of his and pressed them a trifle frantically, the gems on his rings digging into my flesh. ‘Allow me to introduce myself – Tavas Makesh. We waited for you at the area Lord Esras specified for almost a week. I’m afraid we had quite despaired of your coming, and had decided to take the shipment on to Cor Daddan by ourselves. Lord Esras was so vehement in his instructions.’ He ran a practised eye over me. ‘But I see you’ve had a rough journey. What am I doing, keeping you out here in the open? Come have a drink, some refreshments, before we talk business.’ He gestured for me to precede him into his tent.

  I went, fighting down rising panic. The interior of the tent exuded luxury, full of cushions and folding furniture. If it wasn’t for the creeping stink, you could almost believe you were in a private room in a tavern somewhere. On one of the little tables stood a platter of apricots and roast . . . something. Pigeons, maybe. My stomach cramped.

  ‘Hungry?’ Makesh gestured towards the platter of whatever-it-was.

  I should have been, but the thought of eating anything made my mouth fill unpleasantly with saliva. I tried to remember I was supposed to be the one intimidating him. ‘Tired, mostly, and trying to clarify things in my mind. You say you waited at the designated location?’

  Makesh smiled. ‘But somehow we must have missed your messenger. Terrible, I know. The investigation and punishment will be swift. Take your ease?’

  There was nothing to do but sit on one of the ridiculous green pillows. It’s impossible to look dignified while sitting on a pillow on the ground. I leaned one elbow on my knee, and rested my chin on my hand. ‘It’s not that I wish to assign blame,’ I said. ‘But, you understand, the Guild has to be certain of the people with whom it does business.’

  ‘I can assure you, the Guild’s faith in my clan is well-founded. After all, there are no other houses that deal in the merchandise the Guild needs. Tirnaal do involve specific risks.’

  Tirnaal? Somehow I kept my features still. ‘And we pay you well to assume those risks,’ I said.

  He smiled again. ‘The pigeons aren’t to your taste. Is there something else I can send for? Cheese, perhaps? Apples? Wine?’

  How did diplomats stand this kind of fawning? I waved a hand in acquiescence. Eating would give me time to figure out the best way to demand access to the doll. I would just avoid the alcohol. In the best of circumstances, I get drunk quickly on an empty stomach.

  Makesh picked up a tiny brass bell – the handle was a rather detailed depiction of a naked woman – and tinkled it delicately. ‘I’ll have them bring some wine and almonds. Now, tell me, Officer . . . what did you say your name was?’

  I grabbed for the first collection of syllables that flew through my mind. ‘Tellus.’

  ‘Officer Tellus. What will it take for you to feel comfortable with the way my clan is handling this shipment? Officers we’ve dealt with in the past have, of course, inspected our manifest and the conditions in the tents. Others have preferred to deal more . . . directly with the merchandise.’

  ‘Sample, you mean,’ I said.

  He gave a noncommittal shrug.

  Don’t gag.

  ‘Well, I’ve just arrived.’ I picked up an apricot. Maybe if I concentrated on the fruit, I wouldn’t have to think about the trapped people, waiting somewhere in that maze of filthy tents to see if I wanted to ‘sample’ them. ‘We could start with viewing the other merchandise.’

  ‘Other merchandise?’ He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Don’t patronise me, Makesh,’ I said. ‘It would be in a very heavy box or bag, about this big.’ I indicated the length of the doll with my hands. ‘It’s an alchemical tool and the Guildlord is intensely interested, and I’m supposed to ensure that his investment is intact.’

  For a second his smooth cheer faltered. ‘Are you accusing me of interfering with the Guildlord’s property?’

  I smiled. ‘If you’re not, then there’s no reason I shouldn’t be allowed to see it.’

  ‘Of course. That’s arranged simply enough. Tonight, or . . . ?’ I didn’t like the way he was looking at me, speculative, calculating.

  ‘Tonight,’ I said, evenly. I had no idea how slave buyers performed inspections. But I needed to keep Makesh talking. The caravan heading to Cor Daddan meant the situation was worse than I thought. I had been hoping that even if Keir wanted to lead a revolt it would take a little time for him to get the necessary magical capital together; making an undead army would presumably cause enough toxicity to make the process a slow one. But if the Guild was buying whole caravans of Tirnaal slaves, the toxicity wouldn’t be a problem.

  ‘As you say.’ Makesh glanced at the doorway. ‘Ah, the wine.’

  The tent flaps were stirring. They opened, allowing another billow of foul outside air to wash across the room. I stuck my thumbnail into the apricot and watched a drop of juice well up. I kept my head down as well as I could while the servant entered and offered a platter to Makesh. No sense in allowing extra people to see my face.

  ‘Take some refreshment?’ Makesh spoke around a mouthful of food. ‘The roasted almonds are quite good.’

  The servant stopped in front of me. So much for anonymity. I looked up.

  ‘Wine, sir?’ Brix whispered.

  Nineteen

  Brix.

  My mind winked out like a bad lamp. I took a pewter goblet of wine, swallowed a mouthful automatically and realised I was staring. I pulled my eyes downwards, but got stuck again looking at her feet.

  Still bare, but not the same as the last time I saw them. She had new tattoos, lines of dainty blue runes scribed at the base of her toes like sandal straps, the skin still faintly red around the edges of
the ink.

  Binding sigils, incredibly strong ones. She might as well have been walking around in chains. Fear dug chilled hooks into my throat.

  She’s going to tell him who you are. She’s going to—

  After a moment I realised that Makesh was still talking and Brix was moving, serving cheese on a wooden plate now. She was wearing a thin black shirt and loose, calf-length black trousers, slave’s garments. Why wasn’t she saying anything?

  ‘. . . think you’ll find that we have some of the best conditions in the industry,’ Makesh said. ‘We’ve never had a run where we lost more than thirty per cent. Some houses might accuse us of pampering our merchandise, but’ – he wagged a manicured hand, dismissive – ‘I say we deliver a better quality. You’ll never find a Makesh slave talking back to you, and you won’t find prettier stock.’

  Stock. He just sat there, smiling like a toad in front of the person he’d just compared to livestock. He didn’t even look at her. Brix had betrayed me, and in return she’d got . . . this? Sickness gurgled in my throat and I had to swallow it down. She wasn’t tattling on me to Makesh, but that didn’t mean that I owed her anything. I could just walk away. I could leave her there, let her see how it felt to trust someone and have them hurt you.

  My eyes dropped again, against my will, to her fresh tattoos.

  They’re hurting her.

  ‘I’ve already had some experience with your security,’ I said. ‘Quite thorough. You must have had trouble with rabble-rousers, people who want to help your slaves.’

  It was the only signal I could think of, and it was useless. Brix gave no sign that she’d heard me, stepping silently around the tent. Makesh took a chunk of cheese and smiled blandly at me. When Brix stopped in front of me, I picked up a piece of the repulsive curd and her eyes met mine for a split second, carefully blank. Then she ducked back through the flaps of the tent and was gone.