Tex took the cylinder out of Pira’s hands. “There are two scratches on the shaft, and it’s poison-tipped. It’s got a tangy scent, like nightshade.”
“Someone wanted the guardian dead.” Pira sat on the floor between Tex’s chair and the bed, the top of her fuzzy head—free of its scarf—in Jacaré’s line of sight. “This was murder, not an accident.”
“Yes, but the motive may be completely unrelated to the heir,” Tex said, poking the nearby washstand with the dart’s tip. The lightweight metal scratched the wood, leaving a pale line on the dark surface. “The guardian could have made enemies along the way.”
“We’re not going to talk about this?” Leão interrupted again. “It doesn’t bother any of you that these people pray to us?”
Jacaré rubbed his eyes with a finger and thumb. The chatter made his headache worse, and to be on the road at sunrise he needed to get some rest. “Everyone listen up.” All heads turned toward their commander. “Leão, make a list of questions. Tex and I will answer them tomorrow.”
Leão’s mouth opened, but he knew better than to disobey his commanding officer.
“Pira, can you determine where that metal was mined or who it was made by? That may give us a clue as to who wanted the guardian dead.”
At least I hope it will.
“Definitely.” She held the dart in the lantern’s light, looking for a maker’s mark.
“Leão, go down to the common room. See if you can use your connection with the barmaid to find out what happened at Belem’s estate. She may know the name of the guardian and where his family has gone.”
Leão gave a resigned sigh, and rubbed a hand over the blond stubble on his head.
“If she doesn’t have the answers, ask her where we might get a map,” Jacaré continued.
Tex rocked onto his chair’s back legs, balancing it effortlessly. “We don’t need a map. I’ve got one in my head.”
“Things change in three hundred years. The major roads will probably still be intact and mountains will be the same, but new towns will have been built, some abandoned, or their names changed.”
“So you’re going to doubt my skills now? Even after I’ve brought you this far?”
“I’m not doubting you. I want a map so we can update what you already know,” Jacaré snapped, his patience growing thin. “Get to work. I want you ready to ride at sunrise.”
They all rose without a backward glance or murmur.
“Not you, Tex.” Jacaré called back the older man before he could leave. “Sit down.”
“Jacaré, whatever it is can wait till morning. You’re as pale now as you were the day we first crossed the wall, but then you were bleeding from a dozen wounds.”
“I don’t need the reminder.” Jacaré dammed the rising tide of memories, refusing to let them wash over him. “Now sit down. I have three things to say, and you’ll sit in that chair and hear them all.”
He’d never spoken to Tex with disrespect, always overly concerned with impressing his mentor, but he was too tired to moderate his tone.
Tex sighed and dropped into a chair that creaked under his weight.
“First, stop questioning my orders. Pira has a hard enough time following my commands without your example.”
“I didn’t agree to be your subordinate.” Tex didn’t raise his voice, but his tone was lined with iron. “I agreed to come as a consultant and a friend.”
“Stop questioning my orders. At least in front of them.” Jacaré tried to wipe away the spiderwebs that spun across his vision. “If you have a problem with something I do or say, you can approach me privately.”
Tex considered for a minute. “I’ll try.”
Jacaré knew it wasn’t in the white-haired Keeper’s nature to be second in command to anyone. Tex had demanded autonomy from the Mage Council, leading the Keepers’ military during the Mage War and guarding their people as they crossed the wall. Once over the wall, he challenged the Council on every decision, from the fortifications of their new settlement to the traditional colors of the Elite Squad’s uniforms. Eventually they forced him into retirement, hoping his successor would be more biddable.
Jacaré had been a disappointment.
“Next, we have to assume that whoever killed the girl’s guardian either knows her identity or at least that he smuggled the child to safety.”
“We don’t know that. He could have been a gambler or a cheat—”
“Not the guardian. Surely I don’t have all the information, but every image on that glass showed him as a well-loved and trusted man.” Jacaré remembered a few moments from early in the girl’s life, where she looked at her adoptive father with sheer adoration. He’d seen the same expression on the guardian’s wife, friends, and other children.
“All right,” Tex said with a nod, and rocked back in the chair again. “I’ll defer to your character judgment.”
Jacaré’s temper flared, but he managed to hold it in check. He was too exhausted to do anything about it anyway. “We will operate under the assumption that the heir is in danger. She’s been away from Donovan’s Wall for too long, and we need to return her to her rightful home if we intend to keep the spell on the wall intact.”
“It’s falling, isn’t it?”
With a deep sigh, Jacaré nodded. “The balance of power is shifting every day, and it’s having side effects the Mage Council never anticipated.”
“Are you talking about those nasty little snakes in Roraima?”
“It’s more than that. Tonight with the tubarão attack, the lack of predators in the mountains, and . . .” He paused, trying to put his thoughts into words. “The city of Roraima has been abandoned for sixteen years, yet it wasn’t overrun with weeds and saplings. The land is sick. It’s not recovering from the destruction.”
“Have you thought about the implications of what you’re saying?” Tex waved in the general direction of Roraima. “What, exactly, are we restoring her to? Do you honestly think the four of us can give her back her kingdom?”
“Of course not, Texugo.” Jacaré sat up straight. “We don’t have to return her to the throne, just to the proximity of the wall, before whatever is infecting Roraima has a chance to spread to the rest of Santarem.”
The chair legs thumped to the floor. “You’ll return her to a wasteland? What will you do to keep her there? And her children and her children’s children?”
“I don’t know yet,” Jacaré’s voice crackled with frustration. “Why don’t you tell me what I should do?”
“This is your mission.”
“I’m tired of coming up with the answers.”
Tex smirked. “Welcome to the world of command.”
Jacaré closed his eyes again and rested against the pillows. “I only care about keeping the barrier standing.”
“I know.” Tex ran a hand over his face, looking drained. “Do you remember the day it was cast?”
Jacaré nodded slowly, allowing the memory to float to the surface of his mind. “It’s something I’ll never forget. This new generation . . . if they knew that the people of Santarem worship us . . .”
“It would be the Mage Wars all over again,” Tex finished for him.
The silence between them stretched, only punctuated by the tread of feet in the hallway and the slamming of a door. Both men were lost in blood-soaked memories, remembering the crumpled bodies of the innocent, sacrificed in a war over pride and power.
Tex cleared his throat. “What was the third thing?”
“When Leão approaches us with questions, I’m going to tell him the truth. He needs to know the history as we remember it, not the history the Council has sanitized.”
A slight smile crinkled Tex’s lips. “Finally. A decision I agree with wholeheartedly.”
Chapter 28
Rafi
The cream-colored paper had
a grease stain from the sealing wax. It was an odd thing for Rafi to notice, but his mother had been holding the letter for ages, reading and rereading the words as if trying to decipher some foreign language.
“Do you have any advice for me, Mother?”
Her face had gone bloodless, her lips as gray as the widow’s gown she’d donned for the dinner party. The paper crumpled under her fingers, seams appearing across the carefully scripted words. She mashed the letter with a violence Rafi never imagined from his mother. Then she rose, walked calmly across the room, and tossed the paper into the fire. “What I’d like to advise you to do and what you should do are two very different things.”
“Give me options.”
“I have a contact who can help us hire an assassin—no, several teams of assassins so we are certain the job is done correctly—and do away with Inimigo forever.” She rubbed her hands together like she was trying to rid herself of the letter’s filthy author. “The Keepers know we’ve all prayed for some calamity to befall him—”
“Mother, I can’t believe you’d say that!”
Lady DeSilva gave a cold approximation of her usual smile. “Oh, come now! You’ve heard about how Inimigo treats his peasants, and the tales the merchants spread after they’ve delivered their wares to his palace. Inimigo is an evil, power-hungry devil. Santarem would flourish without his infectious presence.”
Rafi didn’t disagree, but it wasn’t a plausible solution to his problem. “Assassins aside, what should I do?”
Lady DeSilva considered, folding and unfolding a pleat of her dress. “Invite him to join us for your naming celebration. If you send a carrier pigeon tonight, he’ll have a few days to prepare and enough time to get here before your birthday. He’ll see the invitation as a sign of good faith that you intend to honor the treaty.”
“He’ll see it as a sign that I’m biddable.” Rafi scrubbed a hand through his hair. “He knows I’m young and untested. He’s looking for a weakness he can exploit, so he can plunge Santarem into war and put himself on Wilhelm’s throne.”
There was no clear heir to the crown after the king’s death, and the states of Santarem chose to function as four separate entities. The surviving cities of Roraima—Cruzamento and Vicente—remained unallied. At first it worked, each state managing its own commerce and taxes, but over time the trade routes fell into disrepair and bandits threatened caravans, robbing and pillaging as they traveled between the states. Road maintenance and security had been one of Wilhelm’s primary duties, as well as acting as an arbitrator for disagreements among the dukes, and between the dukes and their people. He was the highest judge of the land and was considered his country’s greatest protector from threats both without and within.
“I don’t care how Inimigo sees it. We want the rest of Santarem to see that you tried to keep the peace, Rafi. They need to know that you made the effort, so that when Inimigo starts building his armies and hoarding iron from his mines, they’ll know whose side they want to fight on.”
“You think it will come to that?”
“Inimigo will never be satisfied with a mere dukedom while the throne is empty. We knew it was only a matter of time before he made a grab for power.” She gave a little shiver and edged closer to the hearthstone. “Your father’s death expedited Inimigo’s plans.”
Rafi leaned back in the chair, forgetting for a moment the hawk and its damnable sword. The pain to the back of his skull was a swift reminder of the dozens of reasons he wasn’t suited to serve as duke. First and foremost that Rafi was nothing like his father.
Camilio DeSilva had been a bulldog of a man. Short and barrel-chested, he had a laugh that could shake down a mountain and a battle cry that would bring an army to its knees. He was like Dom, funny and quick-witted, a soldier’s soldier, and everyone’s friend. But unlike his younger son, Camilio also had an explosive temper.
Rafi had inherited that unfortunate attribute. It took him a little longer to blow his top than the senior DeSilva, but once Rafi lost control, no one dared stand in his way.
His blood boiled, thinking of the contents of the letter and the potential of hosting Inimigo in his home. “Maybe he’ll give me a reason to kill him.”
“I’m sure he’ll give you dozens, but you can’t take the bait. You have to be unshakable, the perfect host, if you don’t want this to devolve into civil war.”
“What about the rest of the letter? Do you honestly think he’d name me heir to the throne if I married his daughter?”
“Never. He’ll want you close and then poison your wine at the nearest opportunity.” She tilted her head, considering. “Although murder is a dual-sided blade. You could wait for him to name you heir, then stab him in the back when he least expected it.”
Rafi laughed. “When did you become so bloodthirsty, Mother?”
“After you handed me that letter.” Her brow creased. “Would you want to be king, son?”
“Never.” His answer was immediate. “I can’t imagine a more Keeper-blasted punishment. I hate being duke. The responsibility must be a thousand times worse for a king.”
“Good. A man who wishes for power is the most likely to misuse it.” She reached for his hand. “Rafi, if you could choose anything for your life, what would it be?”
He considered for a moment, biting the inside of his cheek as he thought. “Honestly, I’d like things to go back to normal—to the time before Father died. I don’t think I’ll be a bad duke, but I would have been better prepared if I could have spent more time with him. I knew this would be my duty someday, but I thought I’d be an old man when the title became mine.”
“You’re doing a fine job.” She patted his arm. “I am proud of you.”
Mortimer knocked at the door. “Pardon, Lord Rafael, Lady DeSilva, the guests have gathered and are waiting for you to be announced.”
Twenty minutes later, Rafi wished he’d spent the evening reviewing the sewage report. The murky water under the city flowed with less stops and stutters than conversation with Duke Belem. He’d been seated at the head table between Rafi and Dom, and across from Lady DeSilva. Forty or so lower nobles and merchants had come for the supposed honor of dining with the two dukes.
It had been years since Rafi had seen Belem, and the time had not treated him kindly. Belem had a large belly that dangled over a pair of chicken-thin legs. His face seemed swollen. His lips were like two fat earthworms, pink and glossy, against florid cheeks.
He seemed to have only two interests: wine and women. And he had plenty of both, keeping the serving girls hopping to refill his cups and then pinching their bottoms when his glass was full.
“Who’s the lovely little tart at the far table, in the pink dress?” Belem squinted his small brown eyes in the lady’s direction.
Rafi set the roll he’d been buttering on his plate. “That’s Isabella Rodrigues, the wife of a wool merchant.”
“Huh,” Belem grunted around a mouthful of food. “Nice apples.”
“They’re mangoes, actually.”
Dom choked, wine spraying out his mouth.
Rafi held back a grin and scooped a sample of the brown-sugar-covered fruit onto his platter.
The exchange went unnoticed by the duke. “Call them up here. I’m always interested to hear what wool merchants have to say.”
It was a lie. Belem wanted a closer look at the merchant’s attractive wife, but Rafi couldn’t deny the request. The young couple approached the head table with barely contained excitement, bowing and curtsying profusely.
“Lord Belem, it’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” Master Rodrigues shook Belem’s hand then bowed over it. “I work closely with one of your underlords. Leandro? From Alegre?”
“Leandro, of course,” the duke said, but his smile was for the lady only. He raised his eyebrows at her a few times and received a demure grin in return.
; “He speaks highly of you, my lord,” Rodrigues continued, either oblivious or ignoring Belem’s flirtation. “I’d hoped he’d accompany you on this visit, but given the unfortunate circumstances . . .”
Belem’s joviality faded. “Yes, quite unfortunate.”
“I know Leandro,” Lady DeSilva interjected, concern wrinkling her forehead. “He’s our closest neighbor over the western border. What’s happened to him?”
“Oh! Not to him. To his stepdaughter.” Isabella regained everyone’s focus and seemed to blossom under the attention. “It was awful, really. She was murdered after a dress fitting. Her mother found her, throat slit ear to ear, in a dressing room. Blood was everywhere, and there was an awful burn on her neck. Her maid is a close friend of mine. She said—”
“I’m sure we don’t want to speculate over dinner,” Belem interrupted, reaching for a fried plantain. “It upsets my digestion.”
“Oh dear. Oh dear!” Isabella twisted her hands together. “Forgive me, my lord.”
Belem wiped a bit of grease off his chin with his knuckles. “Perhaps I’ll let you make it up to me later.”
Rafi scooted back his chair, causing it to squeal against the stone. “Please excuse me for a moment,” so I don’t gag on my food. “I’m going to go check on our . . . entertainment.”
Leaving the table midmeal was improper, but Rafi had to get away from Belem before his temper took control.
Nodding to the waitstaff, Rafi entered the kitchen and found he wasn’t the only member of the gentry who’d escaped the dining hall.
A girl in a deep emerald dress stood with her back to the kitchen door. Her hair had been pinned in a myriad of tight curls around her head. Her pale shoulders, bare across her back, seemed to reflect the kitchen lanterns like she’d been dusted with gold powder. Rafi’s protective sense surged, wondering if she was another woman trying to avoid Duke Belem.
Then she tilted her head back, laughing at something Brynn said, and his concern dissipated.
“Johanna.”
She turned, startled. It wasn’t just her back that looked different. She’d done something to her face that made her look—
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