Cursebreaker

by Carol A Park

  “And then, Ri Tanuac wants to see all of you,” Driskell continued.

  Damn. Guess Vaughn was going to have to go to a meeting after all.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A Friendly Game

  Driskell shivered in the night air, and not because it was cold. No, every empty street, every shadow, every nook and cranny could hold a knife in the dark.

  Not that he flattered himself that he was important enough for someone to want to eliminate, but never in his life had he witnessed someone attempt to kill someone else in front of him. It left him more shaken than he wanted to admit.

  He turned the corner and quickened his pace, relieved to see light and hear music flooding out of the building he was headed for: Tamal’s inn. He thought maybe a night of tapolli and a mild drink or two might take his mind off work.

  Had he realized when he’d accepted this position that in less than two years he’d be embroiled in the middle of a revolt, on friendly terms with Banebringers and Xambrians, and watching people get strangled in front of him, he might have settled for that desk job at the Donian regional bank.

  The assassination attempt on Yaotel was also a sobering reminder to Driskell of what having Banebringers around meant for the rest of them, should one of the Banebringers die.

  With the amount of time he had spent with Banebringers lately, Driskell had found himself relaxing. They seemed like perfectly normal people—most of them perfectly likeable people, in fact—and it was easy to forget what they were.

  Until one of them was bleeding silver all over himself.

  Thankfully, the rest of the afternoon remained incident-free. Tanuac had a rather brilliant idea for where to hold the man and a place to move the Ichtaca—all of them, not just Yaotel’s inner circle—where they would be safer for now. The man had been successfully moved in secret and the Banebringer healer, Linette, was working on reviving him as soon as possible so he could be questioned.

  And the sooner, the better. There was a traitor in their midst—or at least someone who had broken confidence. Either way, their planning for how to deal with the impending Conclave threat had come to a grinding halt until the culprit could be identified and dealt with because Tanuac could no longer trust his own advisors.

  And that fact smarted. Both Tanuac and Nahua had been deeply disturbed by the assassination attempt, and, frankly, he had been too, beyond the obvious reasons.

  Donians had always prided themselves on the relative purity of their interpretation of the Setanan political system. They held fair elections when the Ri died or decided to retire. Though connections didn’t hurt, ultimately the Gan were selected for their abilities and character. And even though it wasn’t strictly necessary, the Donian Ri had always striven to involve their Gan in the process of governance to a greater extent than other Setanan regions.

  There were not assassinations, back-room politicking, and under-the-table deals.

  In short, they prided themselves in not being Setanan.

  In light of the assassination attempt, Tanuac had canceled the meeting scheduled for that afternoon. He had intended it as a brainstorming and planning session with the Ichtacan inner circle, his Gan, and General Gyano. Instead, he met only with the Ichtaca. It was a strange reversal that Banebringers were suddenly the only people they could trust.

  Enough of that, Driskell thought, pushing open the door to the inn.

  Tamal gave him a cheery wave as he entered, and Driskell felt some of the tension drain from his shoulders. Part of him wished Tania could be here with him tonight—she had work obligations—and part of him was glad she couldn’t, because there was no way he’d be able to hide his tension from her, and she’d be too concerned to let it go.

  “Driskell!” a voice called from across the room, waving him over to one of the tapolli tables.

  Driskell recognized two of the four men seated around the table, and neither of the women. The first whom he recognized, the one who had called to him, was a friend and co-worker—a clerk from the civic hall by the name of Deloro. The other was an older minor noble Driskell had seen on occasion but didn’t know well named Lord Grinya.

  Driskell wandered over to watch the game in progress. He didn’t know the two men playing. One of them tossed a setan into the hole at the end of his board—already almost full—and his opponent groaned, while Lord Grinya banged his empty mug on the table loudly.

  “Come on, Klai,” he said, “one more.”

  Klai frowned. “That’s what you said last time, Grinya, and I’m already in the hole.” But he matched his opponent’s wager, took a deep breath, and tossed his five stones.

  Only two landed with the white dot up.

  His opponent moved his red marker forward a space with a triumphant shout while Klai cursed under his breath.

  “You want to play the winner?” Deloro asked Driskell. He winked. Deloro knew Driskell didn’t bet.

  “Ha. No thanks.”

  Grinya overheard them. “Ah, Driskell,” he said, putting a hand a little too heavily on his shoulder. “Live a little. Drinks on me!”

  Driskell slunk away from him as politely as he could manage, but Grinya only leaned closer, so much so that Driskell could smell the alcohol on his breath, and jerked his head toward the woman at his side. “I’ll even share Deiya here if you win.”

  Driskell glanced at the woman, who gave him a sly wink. “Er…” He stammered, feeling his cheeks heat. “I’m not really—”

  The hand on Driskell’s shoulder tightened. “Come on, boy. You’re being awfully impolite to your betters, don’t you think, for someone angling for promotion himself?”

  Driskell glanced at Deloro, who gave him a sympathetic look. Ri Tanuac’s noble appointees were generally good people, but some of those born into it thought a little too highly of themselves. Of all the nights to run into this crowd…

  “Are you ready for our game?” a woman’s voice said impatiently from behind him.

  Driskell spun around and blinked at the woman who stood there—staring at him. The same woman who had saved Yaotel from the assassin earlier that day. He searched for a name—he knew he’d heard it… There. “Da Ivana. Uh, yes,” he said, though he had no idea what she was talking about, it was as good of an excuse as any. “Of course.”

  He sketched a quick bow to Grinya. “Prior engagement, my lord. So sorry.”

  Grinya frowned at him but said nothing more.

  Ivana led him to the other side of the room, where there was an empty tapolli table, and sat down on one side of it.

  He cautiously joined her on the other.

  “I apologize if I misread the situation,” she said, picking up one of the silver stones in the groove on her side of the table. “But I happened to notice you come in, and you looked like you needed an excuse to escape.”

  He relaxed a bit. “Ah. Yes. You had the right of it.” He glanced back at Grinya and then gave Ivana a grateful smile. “It seems, once again, I’m in your debt, Da.”

  She returned the smile. “I don’t keep a tally of debts. Is he going to be a problem later?”

  “No, I don’t think so. He’s just half-drunk.”

  She made a noncommittal noise. “Dal Driskell, was it?”

  He nodded.

  “I don’t think we were ever formally introduced.”

  “No…I suppose not.” He took a deep breath. “I’m Ri Tanuac’s attaché—though in reality I work with both him and Lady Nahua, his daughter.” He paused. “Not to pry, but you weren’t with the others this afternoon. And…you’re not with them now?”

  She set the silver stone on the opening space. “I’m not part of their group.”

  He blinked. “Oh. When you came in with Dal Vaughn, I suppose I assumed you…were,” he finished lamely since he couldn’t be more specific in public.

  “No. Just a friend of Vaughn’s.” She gestured toward his side. “Now, Dal, I confess, I don’t remember how to play this game. It’s been a long time.”

/>   “Oh! You really want to play? Sure. That’s why I came here tonight anyway. But I don’t bet.”

  “Wise choice,” she said.

  A crash sounded from somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen, and Driskell jumped, scattering across the floor the pieces he had just laid out.

  He clenched his fist and bent down to gather the stones, embarrassed. “I apologize. I’ve been jumpy today.” He lowered his voice. “I…think I’m seeing assassins around every corner now, you know?” He straightened up.

  She didn’t reply; instead, she flicked her eyes behind him.

  He turned to find Gan Dillion coming their way. “Driskell,” Dillion said, nodding to him. “Been a while since I’ve seen you in here.”

  He rose from his chair, dropping the stones that he had just put in his lap.

  Burning skies, what was wrong with him tonight?

  “Your Grace,” he said, inclining his head. “Am I needed?”

  “No, no,” Dillion said, waving his hand. “I’m sorry to interrupt you. I just thought I’d say hello. I’m picking up one of Tamal’s famous tarts for Keita on my way home…since it turns out I wasn’t needed this afternoon after all, eh?”

  Driskell swallowed. This was…awkward. “Indeed, Your Grace.”

  Dillion hesitated. “Any idea what that was about?”

  “I’m sure Ri Tanuac had his reasons for canceling.”

  Dillion proffered a tight smile. “I’m sure.” He inclined his head. “Have a good night.”

  Driskell sank back into his chair, watching the Gan’s back as he made his way to the bar to talk to Tamal.

  Ri Tanuac had asked Driskell’s opinion on his four Gan that afternoon, after they had met with the Ichtaca. Driskell had been forced to admit that Gan Dillion seemed the most obvious suspect.

  Tanuac preferred that all his advisors come to an agreement on pivotal decisions, but in this case, he had ruled that they would make both alliances without Dillion’s support. Could Dillion have really been that angry?

  The truth was, Driskell had always rather liked Dillion. He was brusque, attentive to detail, and a master administrator. He was proof that one didn’t have to be charismatic or have much to offer other than his own skill to be appointed as a Gan. It meant that Driskell might one day aspire to such an appointment, despite not being connected to nobility himself. The man had even given him a few pointers here and there.

  Driskell really didn’t want to believe Dillion was a murderer—or even untrustworthy, however outspoken he was against Tanuac’s plans in their private meetings.

  But Driskell had also said to the Ri that if Dillion wanted to subvert their plans, it seemed he would be less vocal about his disagreement—since it did too obviously point to him if anything went wrong.

  Both Tanuac and Nahua agreed with him on all points, which still left them with no clear suspects. Herne, unless he was an incredible actor, was by all appearances fully supportive of both alliances. Both Gan Fiacra and Gan Beatha appeared to Driskell to have submitted to the Ri’s will and reluctantly agreed that this was the only way to accomplish their goals.

  “Dal, it doesn’t appear that you really want to play tapolli tonight.”

  Driskell jerked his eyes back to Da Ivana, who was patiently waiting for him to return his mind to setting up the game.

  He swallowed. “No. I…actually, I think I’m going to head home and turn in. This has been a…” He shook his head and stood. “My apologies. Maybe another time?”

  Ivana stood and inclined her head. “If you’d like.”

  Driskell gave her a short bow and headed back to the dormitory. It felt as though the entire city of Marakyn were balanced on a precipice, instead of beneath it. One shove and the whole thing would come crashing to the ground.

  Ivana returned to her room after Dal Driskell left. She had only gone to the dining room to bring something back for dinner—and had happened to see the young man walk in.

  When he obviously hadn’t been enthused about the group of people he’d joined, she’d taken the opportunity to seize him up.

  He was certainly not a threat, unless he was an excellent actor. No, rather, Ri Tanuac’s attaché was very young…and very, very stressed.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Puzzles

  Ivana spent five days alone in a room with a mysterious language to puzzle over.

  It was glorious.

  No bickering with Vaughn, no daggers of hatred from Yaotel, no polite conversation with people she’d rather not talk to, no bloodbane to slay, no murders to stop or commit, no ghosts from her past…

  Well, aside from the journal lying on the corner of the desk, of course. But she had almost grown used to the sight of her mother’s neat script staring at her every time she looked at it.

  She was glad that Yaotel hadn’t seen fit to include her in whatever plots the Ichtaca and Donian government had going on. She could do this translation for Vaughn and be done with all of them.

  Then what?

  Well. Her solitude was glorious aside from that nagging thought.

  She pushed aside a piece of paper—and the thought.

  She was just starting to wonder if Vaughn had forgotten about her—or if what Yaotel had told him had pushed everything else out of his mind—when he finally showed up at her door again.

  She let him in and went to sit back at the desk.

  “How’s it going?” He closed the door after him and then wandered over behind her at the desk.

  “Surprisingly well,” she said. “There’s a lot of vocabulary overlap, which is what I was hoping for.”

  “So you’re almost done?” he asked, craning his neck to look at her translation work.

  “I’d give it another couple of days for a finished product. Or at least as finished as I’m going to get it.”

  There was a long silence. “There still seem to be an awful lot of questions marks…”

  She shuffled her papers around to hide the one with her marked-up, rough translation. “It isn’t as simple as plopping one word in the place of another. For one thing, the Xambrian order isn’t necessarily the same as the word order of this mystery language. So I have to figure out which vocabulary the words in this script are supposed to represent from my own translation of the Xambrian, already a translation of a mystery language.”

  She tapped her pencil on what was now the topmost paper, which was her mini-primer on the mystery language, so far as she could figure out from the miniscule sample she had to work with. “Secondarily, just because a vocabulary word is similar doesn’t mean it can be translated the same. The language appears to be marked for gender and plurality, but only partially for case? I’m not sure on that one—I think my sample size is just too small to say definitively. And then, the verbal system is…different. Tense doesn’t appear to carry the same meaning that it does in Xambrian and Setanan, so the verbal forms are confusing me, even when they’re consistent. And then again, maybe I’m completely wrong—maybe this sample isn’t representative. Maybe monumental writing had different conventions—”

  “Ivana.”

  She turned to look up at him.

  He was smiling slightly. “I was teasing you. I get it. I think. It’s fine. Just do the best you can.”

  She exhaled, stood up, and stretched, rubbing her right shoulder blade—which was still sore after five days. “Why are you grinning at me like that?”

  He shook his head. “You should have been a scholar. When you get like this, it’s like nothing else matters.”

  Yes. Well. Perhaps she could have been if things had turned out differently.

  One single comment, and she felt the peace of the last few days slipping away.

  “I so rarely get to see this unfiltered you,” he continued.

  You. She turned away to shuffle her papers into a pile. “Was there something else you needed?”

  “And then that happens,” he said softly.

  She straightened up and clenched he
r teeth together. And apparently, also her back muscles, because the ache in the right blade came back.

  She rolled her shoulder and rubbed at it again.

  “Back bothering you?” he asked. “Is that from—?”

  “Yes,” she said, sliding past him and over to the bed. She sat down and leaned back against the wall.

  “Do you want me to have Linette—”

  “No.”

  He held up a finger. “I anticipated that.” He pulled a jar of what looked like salve out of his pocket, held it up, and raised an eyebrow.

  She started to shake her head, but he held up a hand. “Don’t be so stubborn. This will help. Perhaps you remember the broken wrist that healed in a few days’ time, once you let me help you? Or the leg that didn’t have to be amputated? Or—”

  She held up her hand. Burning skies, that seemed like eons ago. “Fine. Just—fine.”

  She scooted to the edge of the bed, and he sat down next to her and opened the jar of salve. “Glad to see you can still be reasoned with.”

  She undid the top several buttons of her shirt so she could shimmy it down to bare her upper back.

  His eyes slid over her skin and then flicked back up to her face. The pang of desire she saw there only lasted a moment before he schooled himself, but it was enough.

  Enough to stir the same momentary pang in herself.

  She turned on the bed so her back was to him.

  He brushed a few locks of hair that had fallen out of her hair tie away from her back and across to her other shoulder, and then let that hand rest there while he rubbed salve into the muscles around the opposite shoulder blade.

  His hands were warm. She closed her eyes and swallowed.

  “Burning skies, Ivana,” he said. “It’s a wonder you don’t have a constant backache, as tight as your muscles are.” He trailed his other hand down her left shoulder blade. “Relax.”

  She tried. She really did. But it was hard to relax when she was fighting with herself about enjoying the touch of his fingers on her bare skin. When she was trying to stop herself from fantasizing about what might happen if she unbuttoned a few more buttons and let her shirt slip away entirely, if she invited him to give her another full back massage. It would be so easy to do, wouldn’t it? Just a few more buttons…