Death and the Merchant (River's End Book 1)

by C. H. Williams

  “I’m back,” the ro agreed quietly.

  It was a gentle dance, the one they danced.

  Head resting on his shoulder, Isa let out a deep breath.

  Augustus pulled their locked hands to his chest, wrapping his other arm around the lean waist.

  And they let the water take them both.

  RISA

  “There are admittedly few problems I’ve been unable to solve with an insane amount of arrogance, some sharp words, and the ability to win a staring contest. Remember that.”

  ~Risa Barrett

  Risa was sitting lazily in a desk chair, one leg crossed nonchalantly over the other, eyes staring unblinkingly at the man across the table.

  It was, in truth, a favorite pastime, bringing arrogant pricks like him to heel.

  And yet, that insidious bastard wouldn’t look away.

  “Ms. Barrett, you’ll pardon the impropriety, but I fail to understand why you are even being included in these talks at all. This petition, my aides have explained, is due to be answered by the Chancellor himself.”

  “Mr. Carson.” Her fingers were steepled before her, poised for the attack.

  “Commissioner Carson,” he corrected.

  “Mr. Carson,” she repeated, not looking away. “What you elect to do within the confines of Aerdela is your business. But what you’re proposing comes under direct jurisdiction of the Hidden City. A trade agreement with Caelaymnis? What are you even planning on exporting? All they can offer is illegal to trade within the confines of the Quad—the treaty is abundantly clear on this matter. The trading of magical goods is strictly prohibited beyond the boundaries laid forth.”

  He ground his teeth, seedy black eyes narrowed. “You are contradicting your own agreement. Chancellor Faulise—”

  “Is no longer the Chancellor,” Risa interjected. “Nor has she been for some time. This argument is tired, Mr. Carson. The Guild has taken this matter up time and time again. How many more rejections do you require? Because frankly, this” —she gestured vaguely across the desk— “this is a waste of everyone’s time.”

  Gods, to watch him simmer.

  Adrian slid a note towards her, accompanied by a severe look. With deft fingers, she flipped it up, glancing at it before folding it up neatly and tucking it in her portfolio.

  Don’t play with your food, Risa.

  “Look.” She sighed, a bit disappointed. “I’m well aware that Chancellor Faulise had her recommendations—recommendations you know we support, otherwise you wouldn’t be wasting your time here. But there’s nothing we can do. The law is the law, and unless the Guild wishes to be cut off from the City, you will abide by it. And you will not get your way by petitioning Vaupellum into submission. He’s already looking for an excuse to choke off Aerdela. You don’t need to give him any more reasons.”

  “If you are looking to take action, I suggest continuing to work the unanimous vote within the Guild,” Adrian suggested, eyebrow raised. “Unity among the Commissioners sends a stronger message than burying His Excellency in kindling.”

  Clark Carson rose, fingertips resting on the tabletop. “I will, of course, abide by the laws of the City. The last thing the Guild wishes is to be cut off from our cousins to the north. But if I might say, this place?” He scoffed. “It’s gone to shit since Maggie left.”

  “We know,” Adrian nodded, sighing as he scooped up the papers in front of him. “Believe me, we all know.”

  With no small amount of disdain, the Commissioner pulled his suitcoat on, brushing off the lapels with disgust before turning.

  “Commissioner?”

  Adrian was on his feet, dark eyes boring into Clark’s back.

  Glancing over his shoulder with disinterest, fingers on the doorknob, Clark paused.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “No,” he said softly, a whisper of sardonic amusement on his face. “No, I don’t believe I am.”

  A glacial snap.

  The Commissioner had promised letters. Records of the girl’s every movement, an inventory of her hopefully still-ordinary life. The key, ultimately, to bring that girl her city beyond imagining.

  And he’d delivered them, for nearly eight years.

  Until now.

  Whorls of frost curled across the mahogany table, geometric designs skittering with frenzied creaks and groans up the windows. The air was ice in Risa’s lungs, and she let a devious smile curl on her lips.

  “Cut the bullshit.” Glittering crystals of ice clung to Adrian’s burnt-caramel skin, his breath steaming in the make-shift snow globe. “You come in here, demanding we stick our necks out for the sake of your coffers, and you bring nothing in return? Ten gods-damned years, and you still think you can fuck with me? Where’s the fucking dossier, Clark?”

  Buried far below the marble library lay quiet rows of dust-gatherers. Archivists skittered about, wary of the intruder, the occasional pair of eyes squinting from their corners of history.

  Risa could not take her eyes from the single wrought-iron lock, ensconced in a tomb of shining glass.

  “Kiran’s Cornerstone.” Adrian’s voice tumbled quietly through the dark, and amid the scuff of shoes on marble, he joined her beside the pedestal. “I thought I might find you here.”

  Why such a relic had been consigned to a glorified basement was beyond her. Some Factionist political agenda, probably.

  He’d meant to open it, someday, so the stories said. To open the slender barred gates that had long-since been ripped out, replaced with impenetrable stone towering high around the city.

  “This place was supposed to be a refuge,” she said softly.

  “It still is.”

  “For who, though, Adrian? Clark’s right. This place is going to shit. Faulise—”

  “Was before your time,” Adrian cautioned, voice low.

  “No, Chancellor Faulise was my time. She was my era, my salvation,” Risa bit back. “That raid on the tunnels? Children died! Margaret Faulise would’ve never signed off on an operation that compromised anyone with a right to set foot inside these walls!”

  “Risa—”

  “We promised solace!”

  Her words rang through the archives, the echoes betraying her for what she was.

  A Rescindant.

  A terrorist, the papers had called them. Had called her, indirectly, by association with the Rescindants.

  But they were simply fighting for the sanctuary that had been promised, before the gates had been barred. They were fighting for the humans left behind. The ones stranded, sinking into depravity in their isolation, humans like the ones in the so-called Woodshade settlements beyond Caelaymnis. The humans cordoned off in Aerdela, condemned to forget magic, even as it ran in their veins.

  “And when they say that solace is not a sweet-treat to be handed out on street corners?” Adrian’s voice was soft in the ringing quiet. “You will prove them wrong.”

  She brushed the tears of anger from her cheeks, refusing to turn her gaze from the behemoth lock before them. “But?”

  “But nothing. Now get out of here. Go have a drink. Cry over Lea, because I know she broke your heart. Scream about the missing dossier. And then prove them wrong, Risa. Prove them all wrong.”

  THE PROMISES

  Our investigation has taken a disturbing turn.

  Regardless of the events that transpired in Caelaymnis, I remain convinced of the Commissioner’s guilt. He has grown restless, having risen to the heights of the Guild. What he’s planning to do with the magic he’s wrung out of the pastries, I do not know—a siege has been suggested, or perhaps a grab for land. Personally, my bets lay with trade.

  There are more than a few who’d sell their soul—and everything they own—for bottled magic.

  For the moment, though, I believe we have a plan to bring him down.

  I have often said there are few things that cannot be cured with a bit of dancing.

  ~Sam Alderton,

  excerpt from
a letter dated November 30th

  TEDDY

  “Warm companionship, unconditional kindness, and perhaps a hot cup of tea—I think that’s all anyone’s really looking for in the world.”

  ~Sam Alderton

  Sugar laced the air, carried into the still-chilly apartment on the steaming cups of sweetpear tea and the shining glaze being drizzled gently across rows of hot muffins stacked on grated cooling racks, and there was a faint smile on Sam’s lips as he dipped the spoon into the bowl for another pass, the sleeves of his button-up tunic rolled past his elbows, waistcoat and cravat left abandoned cold in the wardrobe.

  Teddy paused at the threshold of the kitchen, raising an eyebrow as he glanced back to double-check the mantle clock.

  Eight in the morning.

  Early, for a tart with nowhere to go.

  “I know, I know,” Sam grinned not taking his eyes from the ribbons of glaze. “You don’t have to make a thing of it.”

  “Who, me?” Coming behind him, Teddy wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist, brushing a quiet kiss against his neck, witch-hazel and lemon still lingering faintly against the smooth skin. “So, shaved and baking before mid-morning—what’s the occasion?”

  “No occasion.”

  “You, Mr. Alderton,” he snickered, nestling his face in Sam’s shoulder, “are a terrible liar.” And closing his eyes, he waited, a smile on his lips.

  But the quiet laugh, the small witticism—they never came.

  “Maybe,” Sam said quietly, letting the spoon down on the edge of the bowl with a gentle clink. “I…have been doing a lot of thinking, these last few days.”

  Not exactly the shocking revelation his low caramel voice hinted it was.

  Squirming out of Teddy’s hold, his brown eyes were fiery. “There is something I need to do. For all of us, for this town—but I can’t do it by myself.”

  “What do you need,” Teddy offered softly. “Anything, Sam, anything at all—”

  “You. I need you.”

  Those words, and Sam’s hands were around his own, strong and soft and warm and he’d memorized them long ago, every line, every turn, every callus, every bend.

  “I have known you for nine years, now,” Sam was saying, and he was leading up to something, a playful spark in his eyes, a hint of mischief turning up the corners of his mouth, and, “you’ve always been my best friend, there’s not a moment that went by when I didn’t feel completely loved by you,” and why is my heart pounding, why can’t I breathe, but the tightness in his chest was so sweet, the air trickling in so pure, unadulterated elation, and, “four years companions, and there is nothing, Teddy, nothing in the world that feels as right as you and I.”

  “Sam—”

  His cinnamon eyes were molten in the morning light, the sun incarnate. “I know, now, how I need to move forward. And I don’t want to face it without making sure you know how dear you are, how deeply I hold you in my heart. Which leads me to muffins.”

  “Muffins,” Teddy echoed hoarsely.

  “Muffins,” Sam smiled.

  And he paused.

  “I thought,” he said softly, sinking down onto one knee, “you might want a quiet breakfast, after I ask you to marry me.”

  ELSIE

  “Loving someone doesn’t mean you immediately know their soul or understand the darkest corners of their mind. Rather, to love someone is to hope that eventually, you will.”

  ~Elizabeth Clement Faulise

  “I don’t understand Sam,” Fletcher muttered, scooping up an armful of papers off the desk in the lodge. “I don’t think you said a dozen words to me in as many days, but now we reconcile, he kicks us out?”

  Snickering, Elsie tossed the blankets back, dangling her legs over the side of the bed, daring herself to let her feet meet the chilly floor.

  “What’s so funny?” He dropped the stack onto the sofa, eyes narrowing on her. “What do you know?”

  “Nothing,” she snickered, padding towards the bathing room. “All he said was that we’re banned from the apartment until dinner.”

  Abandoning the mess of parchment, the sheets spilled towards the hearth rug with soft little flit-flit-flits, chaos giving way to tiny paper avalanches lilting over the leather sofa. Fletcher paid the mess of papers no mind, though, frowning as he followed her. “Until dinner? He’s not mad?”

  “Gods, no.” She snagged a tangle as she combed out her hair over the sink, watching him over her shoulder in the mirror. “He was grinning like a fool. He didn’t say anything directly, of course, but I think he’s actually going to propose.”

  Fletcher’s brow softened, eyes finding hers through the reflection. “Oh. And you are…” He trailed off, waiting.

  “Happy,” she prompted. Sending the comb clattering across the counter, she pulled her hair back into a quick knot at the nape of her neck, strands already breaking free in tiny little frizzed rebellions. “It’s about damn time. They’ve been pining over each other for longer than either one would care to admit.”

  He only nodded thoughtfully, taking a step to join her on the rug. His fingers trailed her waistline, and he rested his head softly on her shoulder, studying them both.

  Theirs was a quiet peace.

  One, she knew, built on the pretending of it all.

  “I think,” she said softly, lifting his hands away from her hips, “I’m gonna take a bath before we go.” Still early, they wouldn’t be expected in the City of Lights for another few hours, and the tub—and the tap for hot water—was calling.

  “Can…I…join you?” His words were hesitant as his body tensed for an attack, a wince already growing in his tightening shoulders as he took a step back.

  Coward.

  She eyed him, smile faltering.

  It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen her naked before.

  “No.” The word was soft on her lips, and she swallowed, watching him. “I just…need some space.” A way of saying that since she’d watched them all burn, she’d been burning, too.

  His touch left her skin on fire, like the capsaicin salve made from hot peppers and oil she used when her cycle sent her back aching. Only, instead of reluctant, slightly singed relief, she only found pain.

  It’d taken her more than a moment to recognize that the skin-on-skin of the two of them hurt. He was so gentle, and she was so gods-damned hungry for touch after weeks of starving, and they’d lain there, in his bed at the lodge, and he’d carefully threaded his hand beneath her shirt, wrapping his arm around her middle and drawing her in close, and there had been an undeniable—and markedly uncomfortable—burning where he touched.

  Magic—that’d been her first thought.

  It wasn’t, though. Maybe it’d have been easier if it was, because then there’d be a reason. But it didn’t feel like the prickling sensation of knitting flesh and bone she knew from Teddy, and when she’d held the lucents, touched the shields…they were smooth, and vaguely warm, and nothing more, and that meant something inside had simply broken, and that was that.

  She couldn’t touch him anymore.

  “You can stay, though,” she amended, watching him turn for the door. “If you want. The company would be nice.” Better than being alone with her thoughts, miserable as they’d turned. It was easier, thinking about her brother, and the wedding Sam would make all of Aerdela remember.

  Or she could think about the City of Lights—that was nice, too.

  She wouldn’t see much, Fletcher had regretfully promised. By all rights, she wasn’t even allowed inside, though she’d been assured that, as she’d be in company of a pair of princes, they’d overlook the rules this time. Even still, though, the idea of seeing a slice of the compound Fletcher had resentfully described as they lay curled together in the dark of night, seeing a bit of his life…

  “A proposal.” Fletcher sank down on the edge of the tub, fiddling with the taps as Elsie stood lost in her thoughts, leaning on the counter. “You’re okay with Sam marrying your brother? After everyth
ing?” The side-long glance told her what she’d already suspected.

  He’d overheard Clark’s demand for the letters, had, then, put it together, what Sam had been doing.

  Spying.

  “Because he chronicled my life for the better part of nine years so that Clark-fucking-Carson could have the only printing of the Story of Elsie Mirabeau: A Novel by Sam Alderton?” she mused.

  “Something like that.”

  Elsie shrugged. It had felt like a betrayal, until it didn’t anymore.

  She knew Sam had been chasing his own scars. And knowing what they were didn’t change what he’d done, because scars or not, he’d still sold her to the highest bidder.

  What she could see a little better, though, was what kind of man Clark Carson was.

  Clark Carson was a page-ripper.

  A rapist.

  Just another welcome-mat confession to go unpunished. The merchants took what they wanted, this, she knew—and yet there had been a thin line in her mind, one she must’ve surely known they’d cross.

  But when page-rippers gave commands, the books had to follow.

  Such was the ink-and-parchment life.

  To live in the lines of another’s book, or else, die between the spaces of their own.

  Elsie sighed, folding her arms across her chest as she watched Fletcher feeding a thin stream of soap into the bath she hadn’t asked him to draw. “Sam did what he had to, to survive,” she said softly, watching a plume of bubbles meet the water. “Any of us would’ve done the same.”

  He raised an eyebrow, nodding as he watched the water. “True,” he muttered. “Very true.”

  “You don’t have a problem with him, now, do you?”

  He shook his head. “I like Sam. He never makes me feel…out of place.”

  Sam had a knack for welcoming, that was to be sure. He was never one to harp on distinctions.