“Sure beats walking,” Myth said as the eight of them lined the sides of the ship, watching the thick green of the riverbank pass by.
“Where is the palatus?” Nolyn asked.
“Over there,” Riley replied, pointing to the little man sitting on the deck with his back to the gunwale, his thin robe wrapped tightly about him. “He seems content to stay put. I think he’s a tad frightened of the water. Don’t think the sod can swim.”
“How long will we be aboard?” Ramahanaparus Mirk asked Nolyn.
“That depends,” Nolyn replied. “Getting out of Urlineus was my first priority. Now that we’re on our way, I have to think things through.”
“I thought you’d already decided.” Amicus, having finished with the jungle, turned his back and rested both elbows on the rail. “You said you were heading back to face your father.”
“I also said that was a dumb idea. And since he wants you dead, too, leading you there would be rude, don’t you think?”
“What is it between you and your old man, anyway?”
Nolyn threw up his hands. “If only I knew. We’ve never gotten along. I suppose a big part of it is because I’m half human.”
“But he married your mother,” Jerel said.
Nolyn looked over the edge at the dark, swirling water as it rolled past the hull in undulations that couldn’t be felt. “Persephone was the keenig. She ruled over all the human clans. My father needed her armies. But after the war, the balance of power shifted, even more so after she died.” He sighed and turned to peer out over the curved head of the prow. “I dunno. The ship’s captain seems accommodating enough. Maybe we should ask him to drop us off in Caric. We could live like giants there.” He forced a laugh. The others provided empathetic chuckles.
“I’d like to go to Percepliquis, sir,” Mirk said. The lad no longer had his face wrapped, but the red scabs on either cheek still stood out. “I’ve always wanted to see the great city.”
“Been years since I left,” Amicus said.
“I only passed through as I ran from Rodencia.” Smirch wiped his nose with his forearm. “Don’t get to see much when you’re running for your life.”
“It’s a wondrous place,” Jerel said. “I used to go there twice a year with my father for stock auctions. The thing I remember most is the food. There are so many different kinds. I first tasted tiger in Percepliquis.”
“How was it?” Everett asked. The boy had the eager face of innocence, and Nolyn guessed he hadn’t been long in the jungle or the legion; both had a way of leaching curiosity. He was still more child than man, and yet, Nolyn recalled how Bran had been gray-haired and managed to retain that same uncorrupted spirit. Perhaps not all miles were the same.
Jerel thought a moment. “Tiger meat is . . . well, like the animal, I suppose—pretty to look at but tough. I chewed that piece of meat until my jaw ached. I spat it out when no one was looking because I was afraid it would choke me if I swallowed.”
“I like the fountains,” Amicus said, his eyes looking above the tree line as if he could see them. “Fresh water bubbling up throughout the city. And the baths! Oh, dear deity, they are joyous.”
“Yes!” Nolyn smiled at the memory. “They’re incredible. There’s nothing better than settling into steaming-hot water for drawing out the pain of sore muscles and rinsing away filth.”
“Add a woman and a bottle of wine, and I’m there,” Myth said.
“What about you, Riley?” Amicus asked. “What do you remember?”
The man shook his head. “Never been. I’m a Rhulynia boy. Haven’t even crossed the Bern River. Grew up in a little village northeast of Vernes, an old mining town. My father, all his brothers, and their grandfathers before them worked the foothills, digging iron and coal. A stooped back and a hacking cough didn’t seem like a good enough reward for a life of hard work. So being the genius I am, I joined the legion. Twenty years later, this is what I have to show for my life.” He clapped his dented armor. “The idea of coming home to a wife and family seems oddly grand now. But I’ll go see this amazing city if that’s where His Highness leads.”
Nolyn said, “I have no idea where we should go, and this might sound strange, but when I was young—some eight hundred and forty years ago—there was a woman named Suri. She was a”—Nolyn didn’t know exactly how to say it and settled for—“a mystic. She understood the language of the world. It talked to her and she could answer back. Suri could do amazing things, stuff you wouldn’t believe. She told me that the feelings we sometimes have is Elan telling us what we need to know.”
“You mean like how you get a cold shiver when someone is aiming an arrow at your back?” Myth asked.
“Well, yeah, I guess so, but it can be more complicated than that. It’s a way of knowing things with your heart that you couldn’t possibly work out with your head. Sometimes you get it wrong, just like you make any other mistake, but that doesn’t make it false. Suri taught me to trust that voice even when it’s painful to hear.”
“This voice?” Amicus asked. “Is it what’s telling you to go to Percepliquis?”
Nolyn shook his head. “Honestly, that voice has been silent for centuries, but common sense says that going home is crazy.”
“It’s not, sir,” Jerel said. “It’s what you’re meant to do. It’s the will of the One.”
“Well, then let’s hope this One knows what he’s doing.”
Chapter Nine
Inside the Gem Fortress
At first light, Sephryn’s door finally released, and the three left her home. Seymour returned to the records hall, while she followed Errol to the upper east side, where the most successful businesses took advantage of the river to import and export goods by barge. They stopped in front of West Echo Precious Gems and Jewelry Creations, a formidable building of meticulously cut and set rose granite blocks that dominated the trade center like a swan in a flock of ducks.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Sephryn said, looking up at the massive building that everyone referred to as the Gem Fortress. It didn’t look like a shop at all. The five-story structure that extended along one whole side of the trade square towered over them. “Augustine Brinkle the jeweler? That’s the guy you know?”
Errol Irwin nodded. The thief had said precious little that morning while he sped through the streets so quickly that she considered he might be trying to lose her. The sky was dark with clouds, the air damp with the promise of a forthcoming outburst. To Sephryn, the dirty overhead puffs looked as heavy as snow clouds, but although the air was chilly, it wasn’t that cold. They had seen the last of winter; what was approaching was a spring storm.
“You’ve heard of him, too?” Errol asked.
“Everyone has! Not only is he the city’s most prominent businessperson, he’s also the Belgriclungreian ambassador,” Sephryn replied.
“I’m impressed you can say that word. Rumor has it that a man once sprained his tongue while trying. Most just use dwarf for obvious reasons.”
Sephryn looked back at the storefront and its set of bronze doors decorated with relief panels of dwarven craftsmen laboring at various workstations.
“Incredible,” she said and reached for the door.
“Wait.” Errol stopped her. “Not yet.”
“What? Why? You were in such a hurry to get here that I thought you had other pressing appointments to get to.”
Errol pressed his palms together and used them as a pointing paddle. “Two reasons.” He aimed his hands at the Gem Fortress’s doors. “First, they won’t let us in. Second, Brinkle isn’t here yet.” He pointed his fingertips up the street. “Augustine will arrive precisely two minutes from now.”
“What makes you think that? How can you even tell time so accurately?” She looked over at the massive sundial in the center of the plaza. The heavy cloud cover made it impossible to see even the faintest shadow. “I have excellent eyesight, and I can’t see—”
The thief rolled his eyes. “Oh p
lease, the number of things you don’t observe would take too long to list. We only have one minute, forty-two seconds left.”
“But I still don’t understand how you know any of this.”
He wiped a hand over his face to further emphasize his exasperation. “Didn’t you notice the bakers placing their rolls out on Griffin Street? The first two nearly empty trays were steaming; the third and fourth were not. The bakers always set out their first doughy treats before dawn to catch the zombie parade of the city’s poor as they march to the rock quarry. They put their second batch out exactly one hour later so it will be releasing an irresistible aroma just as the merchants pass by. Likewise, jugs of milk were on the stoops of the homes in Brighton Heights, which means they had been delivered, but not yet brought in. And although the dairy and bakery carts were set up along Bristol Street, the ice wagons haven’t yet arrived. Need I go on?”
“All that means is that it’s morning. No one is so exacting in their daily routine.”
“Mister Brinkle is. I’ve done quite a study on him and his establishment. I’m intimately familiar with the fellow’s habits. And he is a stickler, let me tell you.”
“Hold on.” Sephryn narrowed her eyes. “You’ve been watching him? You don’t actually know Ambassador Brinkle, do you?”
Errol shrugged. “I know of him.”
“So does everyone! Why did you say you knew him?”
“I said I knew a guy.”
“But you don’t. You lied.”
“I didn’t. The fact that I know Augustine Brinkle exists is the truth. You chose to assume my statement meant more than it did. That’s on you. Besides”—he shrugged—“I didn’t like the way the poker was looking at me. Death by fireplace implement wasn’t what I wanted for my future. It seemed wiser to suggest I had a valuable part to play in your little melodrama than to admit I couldn’t help.”
“Melodrama? You act awfully superior for a common street thief.”
Errol’s eyes widened. “I can assure you I am anything but common. You tasked Arvis Dyer to find the best abactor, and surprisingly, that crazy bat actually succeeded.”
“The best what?”
Errol frowned. “Technically, it’s someone who steals livestock, which I don’t deal in, not as a general rule at least. But I do prefer the term over robber, burglar, bandit, or crook—all of which are tainted by poor practitioners of the craft—and criminal mastermind is too pretentious even for me.”
She couldn’t make sense of Errol Irwin. He seemed clever, but appearing smart and being intelligent were often two different things, and Sephryn had no idea which she was dealing with. Standing in the brisk morning air in front of the Gem Fortress, she began to think Errol was neither a criminal mastermind nor even a thief but merely a flashy swindler. He had impressed her with his keen observations and quick mind, but the result of his mental acuity had left her standing out in the cold, awaiting a storm.
“Ah, right on time,” Errol said, nodding ever so slightly up the street to where a litter was carried by four men. “The dwarf is wonderfully punctual. The sun likely looks to him for the signal to rise. They’re all that way, you know.”
“I have no idea what you are referring to.”
“The little folk—dwarfs. They are all obsessed with precision. Helps with their crafts. Even the smallest of mistakes can turn a diamond to dust or collapse a bridge.”
Sephryn’s estimation of the man’s intelligence dropped another rung. “Seriously? You paint with that broad a brush, do you? How would you feel if Augustine said all humans were exactly like you?”
“He would never say such a thing. He would know I’m unique. And lumping me in with the rest of humanity is like comparing a hawk to a housefly.”
“What I’m getting at is that you’re speaking about opinion, not fact. And while you might feel strongly that your hypothesis is true, it might not be. You don’t know.”
“But I do.”
“How?”
“I’ve already explained.” Errol sighed. “And I must say, it’s quite frustrating speaking to a person who doesn’t pay attention. Augustine Brinkle wouldn’t say other people were like me, because dwarfs are precise.”
A dozen different outraged responses welled up in her, but Sephryn had no time to reply as a litter arrived and stopped at the Gem Fortress’s big entrance.
The carrier, which looked like a little lacquered and richly ornamented house complete with a peaked roof, windows, and curtains, was set down on its support legs. A man—not one of the four sweaty ones who carried the litter, but another fellow entirely, one dressed in clean robes who had jogged along behind the litter—stepped up and opened the door to the travel seat. He also extended a hand to help Augustine Brinkle step out.
There were no Belgriclungreians in Merredydd, and precious few in Percepliquis. Because Sephryn had been to only a few other places, she hadn’t seen many dwarfs. Ambassador Brinkle performed his trade negotiations with the First Minister in the right-hand wing of the palace, which was far away from the Imperial Council. Sephryn vaguely recalled meeting King Rain of the Kingdom of Belgric when she was a child, but that memory was now just a set of faded impressions. What she recalled the most was that her mother and father held King Rain in high regard, which was odd given her mother’s general dislike of dwarfs—especially the one named Gronbach, whose name Moya often used as a curse.
Seeing Brinkle, Sephryn’s first thought was that the gem mogul was bizarrely small. The few Belgriclungreians she had met were a solid four feet or so in height. Brinkle wasn’t anywhere near that. He gave the two of them only a brief glance as he hopped down the half-foot step to the street, managing the descent without spilling a drop from his porcelain teacup.
“Good morning, Augustine,” Errol said brightly.
“I know you, don’t I?” That response produced a self-satisfied smile on Errol’s face until he realized Augustine was speaking to Sephryn. The dwarf thought a moment, tapping a ridiculously delightful miniature finger against his cheek. “Oh, yes! You’re Sephryn, the mixed-blood daughter of Moya and Tekchin, isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” she said. The word mixed-blood was a tad off-putting. She’d heard it before and never cared for the adjective; it had the tone of a slur. She fleetingly wondered how he’d like to be categorized as midget, but realized he’d meant no malice. Words came and went, and with time many changed their definitions. The intent behind the words was what mattered. Sephryn also knew that if everyone took offense at everything, society was doomed. For good or ill, she had put herself in the business of making certain that didn’t happen.
“Tell me,” Brinkle said, “was your mother really as good with a bow as they say?”
Sephryn was surprised. Few people remembered Moya, and Sephryn wouldn’t have expected a foreign ambassador to be familiar with the legend. “The way she told me . . .” She paused while recalling an oft-repeated comment of her mother’s. “They don’t know the half of it.”
That made the dwarf grin. Behind him, the litter was carried away. The door wrangler had also moved off and was holding open the entrance to the Gem Fortress, but Augustine appeared in no hurry. “You’re still the Director of the Imperial Council—isn’t that right? Been there awhile?”
She rocked her head from side to side, evaluating the term awhile. “Given that I founded it four hundred years ago, and have been the director since day one, I’d say I’m past the initiate stage.”
The diminutive dwarf laughed, and just as high-pitched as one would expect. “I like you, Sephryn. How is it we haven’t met before now?”
“Because the emperor doesn’t give the Imperial Council the respect he should, and I don’t wear jewelry.” She held up her hands as evidence.
Augustine nodded, then glanced at the sky. “Looks like rain. Are you busy, or can you come up? I’m due for a refill.” He looked mournfully at his cup.
“I would love to.”
“Wonderful,” August
ine replied.
Her eyes shifted sadly toward Errol. “But what about my manservant?”
“He can come, too, if you’d like.”
Errol opened his mouth, but Sephryn shook her head, silencing him with a look.
The interior of the Gem Fortress was nothing like the exterior of the brooding stronghold. Within was a world of delicate stairs and branching corridors lit from hidden skylights that reflected off polished mirrors of white marble. The lower floor was a warehouse and loading dock, while the middle floors were filled with workshops and diminutive ovens designed to melt small bits of metal and glass. Craftsmen on the upper stories cut gems and created works of art that had been designed by those on the top floor.
The instant they entered, Errol’s gaze darted about as if he were a starving dog in a slaughterhouse, studying, calculating. She knew what he was thinking—well, not precisely. She didn’t believe anyone could fathom that particular abyss. But it didn’t take an Errol Irwin to know he was plotting a heist, looking for weaknesses, marking the best targets.
Augustine maintained a luxurious, albeit miniature, office on the top floor. They reached it by way of a vertical moving room that Brinkle referred to as the elevator, literally “one who rises up.” Almost everything in the space was Brinkle-sized. Chairs, a desk, and even the cups and fireplace were half scale. The ceiling, however, was high, so Sephryn and Errol didn’t need to crouch.
There were two normal-sized chairs. Whether these were always there or brought in for them, Sephryn didn’t know. They took seats beside the morning-stoked fire as a teapot arrived, carried in by a servant who poured out three cups.
“I’m surprised you know about my mother,” Sephryn said. “You don’t look terribly old.”
Nolyn Page 15
