by Martha Wells
Tremaine wasn’t sure what else was said. She was on her feet, standing over Balin, gripping the woman’s chin hard enough to feel the bone under the flesh. Through the roaring in her ears she was conscious of the Capidaran guard caught flat-footed and taken aback, the Rienish guard startled enough to drop one hand to his sidearm. Balin looked up at her, eyes wide, her pose of world-weary contempt forgotten. Her voice coming out in a harsh rasp, Tremaine said, “Do you know how to get them out?”
“No.” It was a pitch above Balin’s usual husky tone.
“Were you an observer?” Tremaine asked, but she knew she had lost the benefit of surprise.
Balin’s eyes flickered. “No.”
Tremaine let her go, making her expression deliberately bored. “Yes, that was very convincing.” She headed for the door, ignoring the guards. Ilias followed her out, shutting it after her.
Tremaine stood in the corridor, running her hands through her hair. She was trembling with rage, ready to hit something. Preferably Balin. Ilias watched her with concern, then said, “So she still thinks she knows everything.”
Tremaine took a deep breath to calm herself, and her mouth quirked wryly. “That came across through the language barrier, did it?”
He shrugged. “She’s awfully arrogant for someone who was just an ordinary warrior. The prisoners from the Wall Port outpost aren’t like that. I think you’re right that she’s a spy on her own people.”
Averi came out of another doorway, from the room where he had been listening in on the questioning. He was frowning, and Tremaine said quickly, “We think she is an observer spy, for what that’s worth. But it doesn’t mean she knows anything about the Gardier that Nicholas didn’t already find out.”
Averi let his breath out, nodding. “I can’t imagine they would send a particularly high-level member of either Command or Science on a mission like that. But all the other prisoners have broken down and talked fairly openly. The fact that she won’t, and that she was part of that original group the Liaison seemed so anxious to dispose of on the Ravenna, makes it seem as if she has some important information.”
Tremaine nodded, relieved he wasn’t going to mention her outburst. Maybe it had looked planned rather than spontaneous and heartfelt. “Niles’s confusion charms aren’t helping?”
Averi’s lips twisted ruefully. “They only help when we know the right questions to ask.” He glanced up, his frown clearing, and Tremaine saw Lady Aviler advancing up the corridor toward them.
Lady Aviler had organized the refugees on the Ravenna and continued to do so in Capistown, finding them accommodation and using her influence with the wealthier Rienish and the upper-class Capidarans to provide employment for them. The extraction of the Maiutan ex–prisoners of war from the refugee hostel by the Lowlands Missionaries had gone very smoothly; Tremaine had suspected Lady Aviler’s well-manicured hand in it. She was a slender older woman, wearing her graying dark hair in the latest appropriate style for matrons and a well-tailored blue wool suit.
“Colonel, Ilias.” She nodded a cordial greeting to Averi and bestowed that special smile on Ilias that Rienish noblewomen of a certain generation saved for handsome young men whose normal style of dress displayed bare arms and chest. Ilias gave her a brilliant smile back. “Tremaine, I wonder if I could have a word.”
“I’ll be back,” Tremaine said over her shoulder, as Lady Aviler had a firm grip on her elbow and was walking her down the hall.
As soon as they were out of earshot of the offices, Lady Aviler said, “I wanted to ask if you could give your father a message for me.”
“Probably,” Tremaine agreed cautiously, unwilling to commit to anything where Nicholas was concerned.
Lady Aviler didn’t argue about the qualification. “If you can, please let him know Lord Chandre has been to see the Princess Olympe again.”
Tremaine frowned at the unfamiliar name. She hadn’t ever been much interested in the personalities at Court and had no idea now where most of them had ended up after the evacuation. “Lord Chandre? Did he come over on the Ravenna?”
“No.” Lady Aviler’s lips pursed, as if she had just tasted something unpleasant. “He’s been here for some time and he’s apparently made himself a power in the Rienish expatriate community here in Capistown.”
Tremaine’s brows lifted. “I see.” She did see. Rienish nobles who had abandoned ancestral estates to flee Ile-Rien early in the war weren’t exactly well regarded. In many ways it was an unfair judgment; many Rienish travelers had been trapped abroad by blockades and the sudden danger of any kind of overseas travel. But she could understand why Lady Aviler, whose husband and son had stayed to the very last to accompany the royal party to Parscia, might not see it that way. Lady Aviler would be there too, if she hadn’t been sent here with the Princess Olympe. “And that’s not a good thing?”
Lady Aviler gave her a sharp sideways glance, then evidently decided to be forthcoming. “I knew his family before the war. He alternated between being an idler and starting a number of failed speculations and businesses. His father had to continually supply capital to buy him out of financial disaster, and he also has some unpleasantly close financial ties to a number of Bisran nobles. Now he has many business interests and a great deal of property here in Capidara, and great… financial influence with the Capidaran Ministry.”
“And he wants to be an advisor to the princess?” Tremaine snorted. Olympe Fontainon was still a schoolgirl, barely out of childhood. She had been sent here as a precautionary measure, in case the Queen and the prince didn’t reach Parscia successfully. That’s all we need, a worthless royal favorite.
“I’m not sure advice is what he has in mind.” Lady Aviler sounded thoughtful. They had reached the end of the hall, where it opened into a gallery looking down on the drafty foyer. Men and women in business attire still hurried back and forth below. A Capidaran Magistrate, dressed for criminal court in elaborate blue robes and trailing a shoal of black-suited solicitors, passed by below them. Lady Aviler leaned on the polished railing, tapping her fingers on it. “His continued visits to the princess give him an appearance of being involved in the war effort. It could give him even more influence on the Rienish here in Capidara.”
Tremaine didn’t think she had much of a head for politics, but this sounded… distressing. She was aware of an unpleasant sensation in her stomach. She didn’t have any particular trust in Count Delphane, but he had been an advisor to the Queen and involved in the upper levels of the Ministry since she could remember; he was a known quantity. And she didn’t want someone who hadn’t taken the risk on the Ravenna making decisions for those who had. “There’s a reason she can’t refuse to see him?”
“She can’t afford to offend him, at this point. She isn’t the Crown Princess. Not as far as we know.” Lady Aviler’s lips grew thin and her expression bleak.
No word from Parscia then, Tremaine thought, feeling the sinking sensation grow worse. They had an heir safely ensconced here, so it shouldn’t matter whether the Queen and the prince survived or not, but Tremaine found that after considering herself apolitical at best all her life, she now feared change worse than anything. There had been so much of it, and all for the worse. “Do you want me to tell Nicholas to take care of Lord Chandre?”
Lady Aviler lifted a brow, and said wryly, “Good God, child, that wasn’t subtle. No, just tell him Chandre’s been to see her.”
Giliead heard Gerard outside and opened the door. The wizard was standing on the step while down in the street, several people were climbing out of a pair of dark-colored horseless wagons. “The people we were waiting for?” Giliead asked, eyeing them thoughtfully. The clouds had closed in and a light rain had started, spattering on the dusty pavement.
Gerard glanced back. “Yes, the Capidaran delegation to examine the new circle. Florian will be a little later, she was detained at the ship.”
Nicholas had reached the door by that point, standing next to Giliead to look ou
t. At Gerard’s words he growled something under his breath in Rienish that Giliead didn’t understand but could guess the import of.
Nicholas retreated back into the house. Giliead had actually spent the morning talking to him, answering a lot of questions dealing with Syprian wizards in general and Ixion in particular. It had been an interesting experience, to say the least. Nicholas wasn’t a man who revealed much of himself, but Giliead could tell enough to know that he was even more ruthless at heart than Tremaine.
Giliead stepped back to let Gerard in, noticing the familiar bag the wizard had slung over his shoulder. Except what was in it wasn’t so familiar. “That’s not the god-sphere.”
“No, this is the sphere Niles made. He wanted to work on the Ravenna’s illusion charms and Arisilde is much better for that, so I went out to the ship and traded spheres with him,” Gerard explained. His brows lifted and he added in exasperation, “I also think Niles is feeling left out, but there’s nothing we can do about that. One of us has to stay with the ship.”
Giliead waited in the cold entrance hall of the old house, arms folded, as Gerard conducted the Capidarans in. One of the men was a wizard, but small, stooped and much older than any wizard Giliead had ever seen, with long graying hair and a wrinkled face. He walked with a limp and had the delicate pale paper-thin skin of the very old or very ill. He looked more like someone who should be at home by the hearth being looked after by his grandsons, especially on a wet gray day like this.
As the group milled in the dingy hall, shedding coats and decorative walking sticks and other items, Gerard brought the old man over, saying, “Giliead, this is Kressein, the former Capidaran Ministry sorcerer who has come out of retirement for the war. Master Kressein, this is Giliead of Andrien, the god of Cineth’s Chosen Vessel.”
The old man looked up at him with clear bright blue eyes, saying in Rienish, “I have been very curious to meet you.”
Giliead lifted his brows, keeping his expression noncommittal. Despite the man’s age, he could tell Kressein was wrapped in curses. Like the Rienish curses he was getting better and better at sensing, these were passive curses, not meant to be harmful. He wondered if they were there to help sustain the old man’s health. Kressein, apparently undaunted by the cool reception, continued, “I’ve heard much about your ability to see etheric traces. You can truly tell someone is a sorcerer simply by looking at him?”
Giliead let his breath out, recognizing the request for a demonstration. His eyes flicked over the rest of the group. Two men in the red and gray that Capidaran warriors wore, three in the dull brown or blue clothes of most men in the city. The youngest one carried a large leather bag slung over his shoulder. Two women, both in the confining clothes and little caps favored here, like the ones Tremaine wore when she went to the council meetings. He nodded toward the younger sharp-featured one who wore her long dark hair pulled back into a bun. She had done a curse recently; he could still see it on her hands, though he couldn’t tell what it had been. “She’s a wizard.” He had spoken in Syrnaic, but the woman looked up sharply, startled. “And you made a sphere.” He rested his eyes on the leather bag carried by the young man. “But it doesn’t have a god.” Not alive, it wasn’t able to conceal itself like their sphere-god. It was like the sphere Niles had made; Giliead could see it through the material of the bag, its curses swirling inside, tinted with the same aura as its creator.
Gerard translated his answer, and Kressein laughed, startled. “I see there was no exaggeration. You’re correct, of course.”
“Of course,” Gerard echoed with a slight smile.
Kressein gave him a sideways glance. Giliead thought he saw rivalry but couldn’t tell if it was friendly or not. He wondered if Gerard hadn’t just been making him known to the other wizard, but had been making the point that Giliead could see any curses Kressein might cast. But the old man only smiled. “So, let’s see this new gateway of yours.”
Waiting for Tremaine, Ilias wandered back into the entry room, where people were working over the maps. He felt his own frustration easing as he watched all these preparations, even if what they were preparing for was the trip back to the other side of this world, that would take them through the world-gate back to Cineth. When they returned to the Syrnai, the god would pass judgment on Giliead, and at least the waiting would be over. He was more than ready for the waiting to be over.
The door to the stairwell opened and Ander entered, exchanging greetings with the other men. Oh, good, him again. Ilias made an effort to look bored and not disgruntled, casually moving to a table to look at the map spread there, though he had no idea what place it depicted. It did no good, as Ander spotted him and strolled over, saying in Syrnaic, “Hello, Ilias. What are you doing here?”
Ilias glanced up, taking his time. He said in Rienish, “Averi asked us to come.”
Ander lifted a brow. “Us?”
Just then Tremaine returned from down the hall, looking thoughtful. She saw them standing together and her expression took on a certain sardonic cast. “Tremaine.” Ander greeted her with a nod. “What brings you here?”
“Just doing a favor for Averi,” she replied. She eyed him for a moment. “Have you heard from Gerard?”
“About the second trip through the new circle?” He nodded. “The Capidarans are sending a contingent to the house to get a look at the circle for themselves. Afterward we’re going to assemble a small group to go through and look at the night sky. We’ll probably stay at least until morning so we can search the place thoroughly.”
We this, we that, Ilias thought, looking down at the toes of his boots to hide his disgusted expression. It would have been interesting to hear Gerard’s reaction to that. Tremaine must have thought so too. She put on the smile that Ilias thought of as her fake one, saying mockearnestly, “We’d better get back then so we can get ready.”
Ander lifted his brows. “Don’t you think you should stay here?” he asked.
Tremaine frowned, glancing around. “Why? What could I do here?”
He smiled. “I didn’t mean here in the office, I meant here, in Capidara.”
Tremaine’s frown was reaching the point where if Ilias had been on the receiving end, he would have seriously considered keeping his mouth shut unless he was in the mood for a fight. Her tone clipped, she said, “And again I have to ask: and do what?”
“Be safe.”
Ilias stared, then rolled his eyes.
“Safe?” Tremaine’s laugh was derisive. “There isn’t anywhere that’s safe. Not anymore. Besides, what’s the point in…” Her expression stilled and Ilias knew she had seen it now. She said softly, “The point is that I wouldn’t be getting in the way. Is that it?”
Ilias read the anger under that deceptively mild tone, but he wasn’t sure if Ander did. Ander shook his head so reasonably. “I didn’t say that. But this trip, and the one to Lodun …If we do manage to get in, it’s going to be a long hard fight. We need sorcerers and soldiers. There wouldn’t be anything for you to do,” he pointed out gently.
Tremaine’s expression was like brittle glass. Watching her, Ilias lost his sour sense of triumph over Ander’s misstep. It wasn’t just an insult; it had struck her to the heart. He tried to interrupt, “Tremaine—”
But she was still looking at Ander. “And I’d hate to be in the way,” she snapped, then walked out of the room.
Ander smiled ruefully. “I was afraid she would take it like that.” He slanted a challenging stare at Ilias. “You’re welcome to come along. And Giliead. We could use your help.”
Ilias took two deliberate steps to pass just a little too close to the other man, saying as he walked away, “If I thought you didn’t know exactly what you were doing, I’d feel sorry for you.”
Giliead paced the hallway outside the ballroom, listening with half an ear to the Capidarans’ conversation. He wasn’t as quick with Rienish as Ilias, but he could understand most of what they said, despite their strange accents. They were ca
refully copying down the symbols that made up the curse circle and discussing Gerard’s description of the chamber it led to. Giliead had given up trying to look interested after only a short time and come out here to pace, wishing Ilias and Tremaine would return. He would rather see the place himself than hear about it again. He had already consulted with Gerard about what they would need for a longer stay there and a thorough search, and Gerard had sent a list to Averi. There wasn’t much to do until the supplies arrived.
He heard a step on the squeaky floorboards and glanced up to see Cletia cautiously peering out of her room. Brow lifted ironically, he told her, “It’s all right, they’re just talking.”
She gave him a glare and stepped out into the hallway, folding her arms. She wore a loose yellow tunic over pants and boots, and rubbed the sleeves briskly as if she was cold. “This is a very unpleasant place,” she commented.
“I noticed.” He wasn’t going to point out that she didn’t have to be here. Cletia’s break with Pasima still surprised him. He wasn’t entirely sure what had brought it about. He thought part of it might be that Cletia was more than old enough to be making her own household now and that Pasima might not be willing to acknowledge that. Karima had been careful to give his older sister Irissa room to grow, encouraging her to build her own home across the field from the old Andrien house. But Karima had thought her family would increase as her daughter, stepdaughter, and Ilias’s cousin Amari all brought home husbands. Thanks to Ixion, that hadn’t happened. “We won’t be here long.”
