The Cycle of Galand Box Set

by Edward W. Robertson

  Granted, Mallon took things too far. It was important to give your people space to decide for themselves what they would worship, think, and say. That gave them the opportunity to come up with new ideas, and to test them against each other like knights on a tourney ground. Dante believed a large part of Narashtovik's renaissance was due to the fact he'd allowed the citizens much more latitude than most rulers did.

  Even so, there had to be limits to such things. What good did it do for your land if you allowed your people to call for it to be destroyed? Didn't that just foment anger and unrest for no reason? What if dangerous ideas were, in a sense, like the traces: when you kept them confined to your own head, they were merely an inert unit, of no harm to anyone.

  Yet when you pooled your dark idea with people who shared it, feeding it and growing it, if it grew large enough, it would create a demon.

  As Dante neared the tower doors, one of the guards moved to stop him. He stated his business as briefly as he could—never a good idea to overexplain; it made you sound desperate, and the wider you stretched your story, the more chance that holes would appear. The guard told them to wait, then went inside.

  Below, nobody was listening to the drunk man on the box anymore, arguing instead with the younger man who'd called for the so-called Drakebane's death. In contrast to the loud but ultimately convivial debate the drunk man had been having, this new discussion soon grew so heated that the second guard was obliged to jog down the steps and intervene. The young man was angry enough at the interruption that he appeared in danger of assaulting the guard, but before Dante could see the outcome, the other soldier returned from inside to let them know that the Minister of Guests had agreed to see them.

  He and Blays were brought into a high-ceilinged foyer and led up three flights of stairs to a round hall thirty feet across. Light sliced through the open windows, bringing with it the not unpleasant scent of mingled waters.

  A slender man awaited them in the center of the room, smiling pleasantly. The official's garment was tailored to his trim body, and as he shook their hands, its expensive fabric rippled like the surface of a wind-blown lake. Metal baubles adorned its hems, but they were tastefully few in number. It was clear that anyone in the city would find him impeccably dressed, yet to Dante's eyes, accustomed to breeches and trousers, the sight of the official's bare thighs made him appear childish.

  "Welcome to Aris Osis," the man said in perfect Mallish. "My name is Yata Jon. By your appearance, you are not from here. Do you think you should have the same rights for petitioning this government as the citizens of Tanar Atain?"

  Dante shrugged. "Who says we expect the same rights they have?"

  "A foolish assumption on my part! Do you believe that you should have any right to petition a government that you're not beholden to?"

  "Do you ask this question to every foreigner who comes to you?"

  Yata's eyes twinkled. "I do! It is useful to remind them of their standing, and me of mine. However, while your question is insightful, it's also irrelevant. Now would you be so kind as to answer mine?"

  "As long as I'm here, am I beholden to your laws?"

  "Naturally. If you were exempt from our laws, wouldn't that grant you more rights than our own citizens?"

  "I didn't want to make any assumptions. I bet I'm held to the laws I don't even know about. Right?"

  Yata looked him up and down. "There might be some judgment exercised depending on the nature of your offense. But yes, the strangeness of your own customs is no defense against violating our own."

  "If I'm beholden to the punishment of your laws—including the ones I don't even know about—I should also have access to the protection of your laws. Including the ability to petition you, like I'm doing now, and ensure that I am acting within the law."

  The official raised his eyes to the ceiling, smiling up at it. "You have been favored with a most convincing argument. How can I be of service?"

  Blays introduced them as Pendelles and Orson, then jerked a thumb at the windows. "Are you aware you have a pack of seditionists outside? They seem unusually fond of regicide."

  Yata laughed lightly. "Would that be Sober Rogi? I thought I heard him slurring."

  "The fellow who seems to have lost his hand in a war and replaced it with a wineskin? It started with him, but he was soon replaced by an earnest young sort who seemed very concerned that young people aren't being granted free land and lofty guildships."

  "Ah, a representative of the Righteous Monsoon. They insist with all their soul that there is a great hand crushing them down, yet when you ask them to show you the hand, they point at empty air—and insist that if you can't see it, then you must be a part of it."

  "Are they any real danger? Or do they just like hearing themselves make big threats to big people?"

  "I think they understand nothing of why our country is as it is, but have decided that the only explanation for its flaws is that it is run by evil men."

  "When in reality you're probably just stupid."

  Yata blinked. "You present me with a conundrum. Are you an outlander who thinks his insults are disrespectful? Or are they a sign of respect to our ways?"

  Blays smiled. "Might as well get away with it when I can."

  "It's one thing to let your people grumble about taxes," Dante said. "But it's beyond the pale to let them advocate for treason. What good does that do?"

  Yata laced his fingers together. "We believe that the gods might speak through one of us at any moment. If there's truth in the words, they'll rise up from even the darkest waters. And if they're rotten, they'll sink into the silt." He lifted an eyebrow. "Does the loudness of our streets frighten you? If that's what brings you to my office, I can assure you it is all thunder and no lightning."

  "We're here to find an associate of ours who appears to have gone missing. A fellow foreigner named Naran. Do you know of him?"

  "Of course. It's my duty to know of every guest in our city."

  "We were intending to meet him here. Do you know where he went?"

  "Why, he was arrested."

  "Arrested?" Dante blurted. "For what?"

  Yata lifted his eyes in thought. "Crimes against the state? Yes, that was it. Crimes against the state."

  "We need to speak to his jailers. Immediately."

  The official got a good laugh from this, then grew thoughtful. "Sometimes, ignorance is sad; others, it's funny. Why is that?"

  "If you can't take this seriously, the only thing that's going to be sad is your family, regarding your gruesome demise."

  "Your threats are unlikely to elevate us to any special truths, sir," Yata said plainly. "Captain Naran was taken to the capital. Foreigners such as yourself can't leave Aris Osis. Foreigners can't speak to those outside Aris Osis. You have no recourse. The sooner you accept this, the happier you will be."

  19

  The civil servant's words hung in the air like the stink of an uncovered pot of week-old stew.

  "I don't understand." Dante's head was buzzing. "He's being held in the capital, but we can't go there? Why not?"

  "Because it isn't allowed," Yata said.

  "I've gathered that much. What I'm having trouble with is the idea that any trouble could be caused by two men of commerce who are simply trying to find out what happened to one of their debtors."

  "As I informed you, he was arrested. As for why you can't leave Aris Osis, we have decided that we have no need for outsiders in the interior of our country."

  "Your people can call for the death of your ruler, but we can't travel to inquire peacefully about one of our partners?"

  Yata nodded, earnest as a priest at his sermon. "Yes, because our people are our people, and you are a dirty foreigner."

  Dante could feel his pulse hammering in his face. They were still standing across from each other—the Tanarians didn't seem to think much of chairs—and dressed in his tunic without any hose or leggings, Yata's pale thighs made Dante feel as if they were holding an
official conversation with a man in his underwear. The absurdity of it versus the seriousness of their conversation made him want to start melting the walls.

  "We're all reasonable people here." Blays folded his hands behind his back and paced leisurely around the room. "Or at any rate, you and I are, Yata; my friend Orson's sense of justice is so sensitive he's been known to pick fights with inanimate objects. Now, you said we can't go to the capital, or speak to people outside this city. But what if we hired an intermediary to take a message to the capital for us?"

  "That can't be done," Yata said without hesitation. "The law forbids it."

  "What if, in addition to sending a messenger, we also made a donation to your office? One that would surely outweigh any troubles caused by a temporary and one-time breach of convention?"

  "You're trying to bribe me?"

  "I wouldn't dream of it! This would merely be a way to help you cover the costs of running your institution. You could even use it to hire more guards, or keep closer watch on those sleazy foreigners. Why, such a deal would make your country safer."

  "I stand corrected: you're trying to bribe me and proposing that we lie to the world that it is in fact a bribe. Sir, you have the moral character of a rutting cat. You show the very reason why foreigners are forbidden from the interior."

  "It was just a suggestion."

  "This can't be the first time something like this has happened," Dante said. "We must have some recourse."

  "Yes," Yata agreed. "You can wait."

  "Until?"

  "Either he is released, or you stop caring about him."

  Dante bit back a curse until he realized that, according to local tradition, he was being unholy. "You stupid pantless son of a bitch. It's vital that we speak to an authority and clear up what's surely been a misunderstanding. Otherwise, there will be grave repercussions for future trade between Mallon and Tanar Atain."

  "No one here has the authority to countermand the law," Yata said mildly. "The capital of Dara Bode answers only to itself."

  "Naran had a ship," Blays said. "The Sword of the South. Do you know what became of it?"

  "It was informed that it should leave. It complied."

  "Where was it headed?"

  "That wasn't any of our business."

  "We're not here to cause trouble." Blays planted himself in front of Yata. "Not for you, not for Naran, and certainly not for ourselves. If there's anything more that you can tell use, please contact us at the piers. We're with a vessel called the Finder of Secrets."

  He all but dragged Dante out of the room. Yata watched them go. Once they were outside, Blays struck southwest in the general direction of the docks.

  "Well, that's good news, isn't it?" Blays said.

  "Good news? Which part? That Naran's locked in a cell in the capital? That we don't know why? Or that we can't talk to him or anyone about it?"

  "At least we know he's alive."

  Amazingly, this calmed Dante down. He crossed a bridge, gazing into the waters beneath them. "And we know what city he's in."

  "I know that sound! That's the sound of someone who wants to get arrested."

  "I doubt Naran was dumb enough to do anything genuinely illegal. I'm thinking he might have accomplished what he came here to do."

  Blays tipped back his head. "You think he found Gladdic."

  "Whether or not Gladdic's here, Naran's ship and crew were driven off. We're the only ones he has left. We have to free him."

  "No arguments here. But let's be extra careful not to cause any more international incidents, shall we? Or if we have to cause them, can we at least blame them on the Mallish?"

  Dante headed for the docks. In another port, it might have taken hours to locate the Finder of Secrets, but among the Tanarian sailing canoes and boxy longer-range vessels, Vita's well-kept cog stood out like the lone orange in a pile of apples. Dante found her overseeing the offloading of the ship's cargo.

  "We've got a lead," he told her.

  She glanced up from her work. "And you tell me this why? To brag?"

  "The local government won't appreciate us looking into it. If something happens to prevent us from getting back here, I'll send my rat. It'll have a message tied to its neck."

  "You have a trained rat? And you trust it to deliver a message to a place it has never been before?"

  "It's exceptionally obedient."

  "May I see it?"

  "Uh," he said. "Maybe later. It's resting now."

  She glanced across the city. "What are you getting into that might require the skills of an extraordinarily trained rat to bail you out?"

  "Our friend's been arrested," Blays said. "We're going to un-arrest him."

  "You don't sound very troubled about this task. Is it common for you to have to 'un-arrest' your friends?"

  "Well yes. But it remains an open question as to whether that's because we have bad friends, or because the people who run prisons just can't stand to see exceptional people having a good time."

  She smiled, running her finger along the brim of her cap. "If I didn't have a House to answer to, I would go with you. Stay out of trouble, yes? You still have a job to do for me."

  Dante made a vague promise to be careful, then made his goodbyes and headed down the waterfront.

  "Where are we going?" Blays said. "Please tell me it involves lunch."

  "Back to see DaNasan. He seemed sympathetic to Naran. He might know how to get us in contact with the capital's magistrate."

  As they made their way along the piers, he kept an eye out for anyone following them—Yata had claimed all foreigners were watched—but he was still having a difficult time telling Tanarians apart at a distance. As best as he could tell, there were no obvious spies.

  DaNasan was out on business, requiring them to hang around for half an hour before he returned and invited them out back to his deck.

  "So?" the robed man said. "Was the Bureau of Interlopers any help?"

  "Naran's been arrested," Dante said. "He's being held in the capital of Dara Bode. Apparently, he committed crimes against the state."

  Blays tapped the pommel of his sword. "In other words, the sort of thing you charge someone with when you don't like their face. I'm starting to think we need to pass a law banning laws."

  "The bureau told us we're not allowed to leave Aris Osis. We can't even contact anyone in Dara Bode. We're going to need to—"

  DaNasan held up his right hand palm-out. "Stop."

  "You haven't even heard—"

  "And I don't want to. It would only endanger me."

  Dante gritted his teeth. "Do you want to know who's actually in danger? Naran! The one imprisoned in a forbidden city!"

  DaNasan tucked his chin, glaring at Dante from beneath his eyebrows. In the gap in conversation, Dante heard an insult shouted from the shore of another island, reminding him that while they were removed from the eyes of the street, they weren't exactly in private.

  "I owe you nothing." DaNasan's voice was quietly firm. "It would better me personally to hear you out, agree to help you, and then turn you into the bureau. My reward for such service would be substantial."

  "But you won't," Blays said. "Because you're a good man with the heart of a modern-day Lyle."

  "My gut isn't the only part of me that's soft." The merchant chuckled, then grew sober. "The truth is, I don't care for the bureau. Nor the government it's a part of. I find it needlessly controlling and opaque. Even so, I am no revolutionary. Just a man who enjoys grumbling. If you want someone who will help, speak to Undan Walan."

  Dante scratched his jaw. "I know that name. Naran was in talks with her. I take it they're friends?"

  "Safer to say your interests will align with hers. Now go. I wish you luck, but I don't want to see you again."

  Dante shook the merchant's hand and left his property. The grounds of Undan Walan were located three islands further southeast along the sweep of the shore. Her docks bustled with double-hulled canoes and long, narrow
rafts that didn't look remotely seaworthy.

  Dante found a foreman and inquired after Undan Walan. He and Blays were directed to a gazebo next to the water. The finest netting Dante had ever seen enclosed the structure from the plentiful insects.

  After they'd spent many minutes sitting around listening to stevedores insult each other, an older woman walked up to the gazebo and swept aside the netting. While DaNasan had been a foreigner—Parthian, maybe, though quite possibly from a land Dante had never heard of—Undan was a thin, pale Tanarian, her dark hair shot through with silver stripes. Her eyes had a particular smolder that Dante most associated with self-proclaimed prophets.

  "Who are you?" She swiveled her head between the two of them. "You have the look of an iron fist hidden inside a velvet glove. Drakebane's men? But foreigners, so this can't be so. The personal swords of a foreign king, then. Mallon?"

  "We don't represent King Charles," Blays said, happily falling into his routine of the casually decadent nobleman. "But we are representatives of another Mallish institution which, if I may be so bold, is hardly of lesser standing. We understand you're acquainted with one Captain Naran, recently of the Sword of the South?"

  "The captain and I know of each other."

  "We understand he's run afoul of some sort of trouble. Dreadful business—arrested and taken to the capital. Sure to be a simple misunderstanding. You see, we are in the service of his creditors, and would like to clear this up so that Mallon and Tanar Atain can get back to the business of making great heaps of money together."

  "Creditors." She said the word as though it was the start of a magical incantation. "I have owed credit, and given credit, and in each case, I wonder: what do I have? What do I owe? In what sense does the debt exist? Can you point to it? Can you pick it up and put it in your purse, or lock it in a chest for safekeeping? No. Because it's no more real than a child's belief in fairies. Does that make you representatives of nothing?"