by Sam Hawke
“I do not like what I am seeing. When it is one of their family members in here on my table, hmm? Or their homes broken into?”
“Sooner or later it will be,” I muttered. “Listen, Thendra, about Bradomir…”
“Well, I asked you, did I not?” She glanced back at me. “I do not mean to be rude, Credo, but is there some special reason I should interfere with a matter that has nothing to do with me—or with you, no?”
I cleared my throat and met her gaze; she held it for a moment and then let out her breath in a rush. Her lips thinned and she shook her head, but her bristly impatience softened. “Very well.”
“Thank you.” Relieved and grateful, I fell into silence as she led me downstairs into the basement, where the hospital kept bodies until formal burial. Thendra and I had never had an honest conversation about what my job entailed but she knew, or at least suspected, and she had done me plenty of favors in the past.
Bradomir’s body was clean and wrapped, smaller in death than it had appeared in life. I felt hollow looking down on his blank, slumped face. I did not pity him, exactly, but death never felt trivial. I was glad Dija wasn’t with me.
“Did you examine him?”
She shot me a look brimming with irritation. “Do not be foolish, Credo. The Families do not submit to such things. Credola Karista would have me thrown from the Guild for even speaking to you about this.”
I examined his face, crouched to better see his neck, letting the silence drag on, until words were tugged inevitably from her like I’d been winding a well rope. “His heart failed, it seems.”
“Mm.” I glanced at her, and her gaze slipped off to the side. “Sometimes these things happen.” She pointedly didn’t look at me as I checked the skin around his neck, checking for signs of a puncture. After a moment, she cleared her throat.
“The wrappings need some adjustment. Would you mind assisting, Credo, since you are here?”
“Of course.” Together we rolled the body to its side, and Thendra fussed with the wrapping around one arm, determinedly avoiding my gaze as she revealed a shoulder muscle. I frowned at the tiny pin mark, faintly discoloring Bradomir’s skin but so small—a mere blemish to the casual glance. My heart sank; for once, I would have preferred to have been wrong. “But it would have had to come through the clothing,” I muttered. I remembered Karista holding her uncle’s shoulders, trying to shake him to consciousness. Could she have unknowingly dislodged a tiny dart? One meant for Tain, but whose trajectory had been disrupted by my shout? A pinprick on his arm could easily have been overlooked in that sudden press of bodies and the stampede to get out of the theater. He had been well enough when everyone had resumed their seats, but dead half an hour later.
There were a few poisons that could kill if injected and against which a proofer was no use, the most dangerous of which was a rare and expensive poison called rucho, the death feather, extracted from the feathers of a bird found only on islands off the far west coast of the continent. Not the kind of substance easily obtainable by a disgruntled family member or business partner, but one only found in the kits of assassins.
I helped Thendra restore the body to its former position, still deep in thought. Karista had looked as if she had believed me responsible—and perhaps I was, indirectly, if the target had been Tain—but, despite that, she was not willing to ask the physics to look for signs of murder. Perhaps proclaiming it a murder might draw attention to the reasons why someone would wish the former Councilor ill, and bring further dishonor to her already humiliated family. Reputation and honor were still a currency of this city, for all our shuffling of power in the last few years.
Thendra was watching me, her lips still thin. “Thank you,” I said quietly.
She nodded. Then, after a long and thoughtful pause, “Be careful, Credo. This country has had its share of instability, yes? I would prefer not to see you down here again.”
INCIDENT: Attempted poisoning of Chancellor Caslav Iliri
POISON: Zarnika
INCIDENT NOTES: Bottle of fortified kavcha delivered to Manor in purported celebration of birth of Chancellor’s niece, proofed and tested by self, found to contain non-fatal dose of zarnika. Given proximity to vote on junction boundary, suspect attempt to incapacitate Chancellor by Ash family. No further action at present.
(from proofing notes of Credo Etan Oromani)
2
Kalina
There’s a fine line between diplomacy and dishonesty. As I stepped away from my broken cup (sending a silent apology for the disrespect to good porcelain) and made a show of being surprised by the man who had looked around at the crash, I thought the line was rather easier to cross than I’d once assumed.
“Credola Kalina!” Ectar sprang to his feet at the sight of me, almost dropping his own cup.
“Lord Ectar.” My best rueful smile and a murmured apology to the boy who had appeared out of nowhere to clean up my mess. “I’m afraid you’ve caught me at my clumsiest.”
The Talafan nobleman, grandson to the Emperor and survivor of the siege of Silasta, hurried over. He was immaculately dressed and coiffed, his pale yellow hair bound with a jeweled clip and his floor-length nihep cut to emphasize his slim—thin, by my people’s standards—physique. The Talafan silk and metallic embroidery gave him an otherworldly sheen in the sunlight from the window. Sincere delight manifested in his fluttering hands and the pitch of his voice, rather than in any overt change in the expression on his elaborately made-up face.
He took my hand and touched the back of it to his cheek, a gesture marking respectful and polite affection in the Empire. “Clumsy? You are never clumsy. I taught you to shoot a bow, do you remember?” He held on to the hand a fraction longer than would be proper in his homeland, I suspected. “I didn’t see you there before. Please, come and join us!” He stepped aside and indicated the cushioned alcove in which another Talafan man sat cross-legged, sipping from a sweet-smelling cup of kavcha. Its scent mingled with the perfume from a heated pot of oil in the center of the low table. He regarded me with a combination of curiosity and distrust.
“Oh, I must not intrude,” I demurred in Talafan, nodding politely to the other man. “I was about to leave in any case—there is a ribbon dancing performance at the arena I have been looking forward to. It was a pleasure to see you again, Lord Ectar.”
“But no!” Ectar’s hands fluttered. “Please! We too are attending the ribbon dancing. Won’t you come with us?” He added, in slightly stilted Sjon, “I have been hoping to see you.”
Since the Talafan delegation had arrived for karodee, Ectar had sent several messages, asking me to various private engagements. Indeed, he had written to me often in the time since the siege, expressing his pleasure over my recovery and his hope to return to the city one day. He was a learned and pleasant correspondent, but his letters had taken on a concerning tone in recent months. I had begged health issues or other commitments to deter him so far. I did not want to see Ectar in private, and build on his obvious hopes. Nor did I need to probe the motives of someone who had risked his life to help us two years ago. It was the other members of the Talafan party I needed information from, and Ectar was my best ticket to gain entry to them.
“What a lovely coincidence,” I lied. Even surrounded by Talafan guardsmen Ectar was comically easy to survey, because like all Talafan noblemen he had been conditioned to pay no attention to servants. It had been a simple matter to learn of his plans today. “If you are already going, then I would be very pleased to accompany you.”
“Wonderful! Your fine Council has arranged a magnificent area for viewing the events in the arena—there is plenty of room. Credola, have you met the Foreign Minister, Master Kokush?”
“I have not.” I offered my hand, Talafan style, to the Minister. He was a shrewd-looking fellow with a thick mustache and small eyeglasses, and he clasped my hand firmly enough, his face still as he looked me over.
“Credola Kalina,” the Minister repeated sl
owly, as if searching his memory. “Credola Kalina. Ah! The Hero of Silasta, isn’t it?”
“Not an official title, I’m afraid,” I said, chuckling as if he’d made a fine joke. He knew exactly who I was, and he’d been stonewalling the Administrative Guild’s requests for a meeting with me ever since he’d arrived in the city. What I needed to find out was why. For now I smiled, going along with the pretense that he was struggling to place me. “It is an honor to meet you, Minister. I met your predecessor some years ago and I was sorry to hear what happened.”
“Very unfortunate,” the Minister said, his face neutral.
“He was a fearsome negotiator, but fair. I enjoyed dealing with him.” An exaggeration; I had still been in recovery when the former Minister had come to Silasta to negotiate reparations and compensations for the disruption and broken trade contracts surrounding the rebellion. When my health was better, though, I’d been able to participate, and the Minister had been a clever and determined man, ruthless in his pursuit of good terms for his country, but a reasonable one. We’d scrutinized him for any sign that Talafar had been involved in the plot that had torn our country apart, and found no grounds for suspicion.
Things were different now.
The former Minister had drowned in a boating accident, and Kokush had replaced him. Coincidence, perhaps, but one of many such coincidences that had gradually changed the makeup of Talafar’s Imperial government. Sjona and Talafar had a secure treaty and had been firm allies during the Emperor’s long rule, but our spies’ reports, the impressions of our former Ambassador Astor, and my own private correspondence with Ectar all confirmed the past two years had seen a gradual shift of power from the elderly Emperor to his eldest son and heir. Crown Prince Hiukipi’s intentions toward the Empire’s southern neighbor were uncertain; we had no spies close to the Prince, and since Astor’s expulsion from the capital we’d even lost intelligence from more official sources.
The Crown Prince was here in Silasta but seemed determined to avoid any diplomatic engagement. Whether we were dealing with a wealthy noble who just wanted to indulge in everything Silasta and karodee had to offer, or one deliberately snubbing our officials for more sinister reasons, we didn’t know. In the last eighteen months Talafar had undertaken two conquests—“liberation and annexation” was the politer term—of small neighboring territories on Imperial borders, reportedly under Hiukipi’s direction. Clearly he was more aggressively minded than his father. The critical information I needed was whether his sights and ambitions had drifted south. Someone with resources had funded a rebellion to weaken us, and if it was the Prince then I would find out.
“Well. Nothing to negotiate for now,” Ectar said, placing a hand on my shoulder blades, almost possessively. “There is a litter waiting. If you’ve finished your drink, Kokush?”
The Minister paused before setting down his cup, and did not hasten to his feet, but nor did he dawdle to the point of rudeness. I pretended to brush my clothes for the last of the fragments of broken porcelain as an excuse to observe this subtle tussle between nobility and bureaucrat.
“Are you enjoying the karodee?” I directed the question to both men as we boarded the waiting litter outside the teahouse. While Ectar gave enthusiastic affirmation, Kokush gazed through the fluttering fabric at the passing traffic and took his time answering. He looked at me in an assessing manner.
“It is a very grand affair,” he said at last. “Quite the celebration.” His manner was faintly hostile, but I couldn’t quite pinpoint why. Many conservative Talafan would disapprove of aspects of the karodee celebrations, most notably the adult ones confined to nighttime. Or perhaps I personally was the source of his distaste. Some in the Administrative Guild had resisted my application for Ambassador on the basis that women did not hold government positions in Talafar and a female diplomat could find some Empire officials hostile due to gender prejudices. Yet it seemed unlikely the Empire would appoint a Foreign Minister who was offended by foreign customs and social standards.
“Have you seen ribbon dancing before, Minister?” I prompted. “It’s quite beautiful.”
“Never,” he replied gravely, without looking at me.
“Dancing is a social event in Izruitn,” Ectar clarified. “It will feel strange to only watch!” Then, as if he thought he might have offended, he added, “But I am looking forward to it, of course.”
A brief tug of affection—he really was trying very hard—preceded a stronger one of guilt for how I was using him. But a degree of dishonesty to all but those closest to me was a necessity of my role. Etan had explained that all those years ago, and I’d agreed willingly enough. “There will be dancing during the masquerade, so I hope you still brought your dancing shoes, Lord Ectar.”
“Do you dance, Credola?” he asked hopefully.
“I’m afraid I don’t have the stamina.”
Ectar’s hands stilled, stricken. “Of course! I’m sorry.” Not the first time he had forgotten, or even disbelieved, my limitations.
Kokush looked at my stomach, suddenly attentive, confirming my guess that he had always known precisely who I was. The ugly knot of hard tissue and the web of pale surgical scars beneath my clothing served as permanent reminders of my encounter with Aven, but aside from the occasional random twinge the injury rarely bothered me. What she’d done to me had left different marks. But for most people it was more comfortable to attribute my slow recovery and any ongoing health issues, however unrelated, to the dramatic story that had defined the last few years of my life.
I would use that; I would turn it and everything else into a tool at my disposal to protect what was important to me.
“I’m quite recovered from my injuries,” I assured him, and turned the conversation to a discussion of Ectar’s trading ventures. While Ectar happily expounded on the new demand for leather clothing in the mountainous Doran kingdom, the Minister visibly relaxed. I was glad of the hours of practice learning body language cues with my Talafan language tutor, because Kokush, unlike Ectar, never wavered in his facial control, and clues to his mood and emotions were in the rise and fall of his breathing, the movement of his hands, the occasional shift in his seat. The more we talked business and trade, the more comfortable he seemed. By the time we arrived at the arena, Kokush’s guarded manner had eased and he had joined the conversation.
The Stone-Guilder, Eliska, and her team had spent months transforming our old sporting grounds into this imposing, impressive structure capable of seating thousands at capacity. A smiling attendant led us to seats reserved for our international guests. Keeping pace with the men as we ascended took much of my energy—fortunes, I hated stairs—but I was determined to stay with Kokush now he was opening up. My lungs burned beneath my ribs and my legs were warm with a dull ache that preceded exhaustion. I would pay for this little excursion.
The guest area, with its unparalleled view of the whole arena, had its own roof to protect it from weather, and resembled a cozy room with its fine cushions, rugs, and lamps. A far cry from the plain benches ringing the lower levels where I had watched several earlier events, but I preferred the anonymity and unpolished excitement of the public section. This afternoon the area was empty but for a few guests from the western nations in one corner, engaged in an intense conversation. I recognized several Marutian Dukes with their decorated beards and flat hats, and the imposing, veiled High Priestess from Perest-Avana. One of the latter’s accompanying officials, a tall woman with a sculptured face accentuated by very short hair, smiled at us warmly, but none of the others looked up from the conversation. A Talafan servant led us to a cushioned bench in the corner of the partitioned section.
“You were telling me about your family’s business, Minister,” I reminded Kokush. “Where did you grow up?”
“My family is from the northwest, originally,” Kokush said, lowering himself beside me. Ectar, who had turned away to hand his hat to the attendant, looked put out as he swung back and found himself on the far
side of the Minister.
Behind us, several other groups entered the area; I pretended to adjust my position on the seat to scan them. It was not the Crown Prince, as I had hoped, but a group of Talafan noblewomen. At their center was a beautiful woman with an intelligent face, long curls the color of sunlit honey, and a kind of gentle grace in her movements I couldn’t have imitated with months of practice. That must be the celebrated Princess Zhafi, the Crown Prince’s younger sister, by decades, and by all reports their father the Emperor’s most favored daughter.
She was surrounded by a handful of other noblewomen and trailed by several maidservants. A glowering and primly dressed man directed them to seats as far from the other guests as possible, his gestures and tone as they took their seats reminiscent of a bad-tempered schoolteacher. In their gleaming multicolored silk pants and elaborate headdresses, the ladies looked more like a flock of exotic birds than unruly children, and their smooth, doll-like painted faces and perfect composure made his forceful treatment incongruous. Ectar bowed his head to the ladies but did not speak, and Kokush gave no sign he’d even noticed their entry. “The province of Lokapir.”
I blinked, returning my attention to the Minister. Though some of the women had looked over at us with curiosity, it was apparent none of the men thought it worth introducing us. It took me a moment to recall what the Minister was talking about, but I recognized the name, for more than one reason. “The home of the famous Lokapir parumb? The most marvelous dried parumb found their way here last year and I have been trying to get more ever since. My mother wants to use them in tea.”
“It will be a while, I’m afraid,” Kokush said, the barest suggestion of a frown in his voice if not his expression. “It is grown near the border and most of the season’s harvest and many of next year’s plants were destroyed in the annexation of Lios. There was a fire.” His eyes darted to the pack of women on the opposite side of the seating area, then returned.
