by Grace Draven
The cur’s ears lay back flat, and its growls grew in volume when Gharek stepped forward. The animal only quieted when the old man tapped the top of its head and shushed it. Gharek’s lip curled at the feel of the guard’s moist grip, and he nearly jerked away, disgusted. His captor only held his hand more tightly, riding the rough pad of his thumb across Gharek’s knuckles for good measure. “You serve a mistress more dangerous than all of us here combined. Only a desperate man walks willingly through a pit of serpents.”
Gharek yanked his hand free to scrape it down his tunic. “Stop wasting my time. Is Koopman here or not?”
The guard waved him toward the entrance. “Of course. My master awaits.” Gharek skirted the dog and ducked to enter the tent. He halted just inside the entrance, allowing his vision time to adjust to the gloomy interior.
Like the sky outside, the tent reflected a preternatural sense of place. Lamps hanging from cording tied to the tent’s frame spilled pale green light across the fabric walls and a floor layered with mats and rugs. At the flicker of movement near his feet, Gharek glanced down to see a twist of shadow in the weave of one of the rugs. Liquid darkness slithered and trickled through the floor covering, moving independent of his own more rigid silhouette until it spilled like black oil over the rug’s edge to disappear beneath it. Gharek barely resisted the urge to go up on his toes or leap onto the nearest bit of furniture.
“State your business, friend, so that I may know how we can benefit each other.”
The voice came from one of the tent’s corners. An ember flare from a pipe bowl joined its own small light to the green luminescence, and Gharek smelled the spicy scent of pipe smoke. A man dressed in expensive silk and finely woven wool slouched in an intricately carved chair. Smoke wreathed his head as he lipped the pipe’s mouthpiece. Beads decorated his beard, a frippery at odds with his close-cropped hair and a face the gods had carved into shape with a blunt ax. Gharek’s connection to the Maesor market had instructed him to find the tent with the blind guard and cur. The man who conducted business inside was well-known in the market, a purveyor of the rare, the perilous, and if those tapestries were anything to go by, the grotesque.
“He’s known as Koopman,” the connection had told him. “But no one calls him that direct. You don’t either, not if you want to deal with him. He’ll call you ‘friend.’ You call him the same. No one in the Maesor market uses their name anyway. Safer that way.” Gharek was not a merchant, but he was well versed in the skills of prudence and diplomacy. He served Empress Dalvila and still lived to tell about it.
“I’m told you’re the eye that sees in this market. Knows what comes in for sale, what’s desired by certain buyers.” He kept a wary eye on Koopman and one on the rug where the shadow reappeared, creeping slowly over the pile toward his feet.
“Flattery doesn’t go far with me, friend,” Koopman said with a snort. “Try pairing it up with something of monetary value. I might be interested then.” Gharek retrieved a faceted ruby the size of a walnut from the pouch tucked into his tunic and tossed it to the other man. “Will this buy your interest?”
Koopman caught the gem and immediately held it up to one of the lit lamps hung on a hook near his head. He inspected it with a practiced eye before trading the pipestem for it and biting down. When it didn’t crack under his teeth, he hid it away in a pocket of his tunic and returned to puffing on his pipe. “It might. A pretty bauble like that is worth a few moments.”
Were he not in such need of this merchant’s cooperation, Gharek would have rolled his eyes at Koopman’s arrogance. “Herself’s spies have discovered that a living mother-bond has made it to these shores. Word is the offspring it belongs to is hunting it.”
That earned Koopman’s full attention. He straightened from his practiced slouch. “There are no live mother-bonds left.”
Gharek moved away from the inky tendrils stretching across the rug toward his shoes like the legs of a spider. One grazed the top of his shoe, leaving behind a splinter of ice that soaked right through the leather and his stocking and into his skin. He skirted out of its reach.
“Maybe not in the Empire itself. This one’s been imported from across the Raglun Sea.”
“And you think it’s living?”
Gharek shrugged. “I don’t think anything. It’s what I’ve been told. I’ve also been told to find it and bring it to Herself.”
Koopman edged a little closer to Gharek. The eldritch shadow on the floor cowered away, fleeing across the rug to bleed once more under the fringe. “Trying to string up another version of Golnar? What makes you the special errand boy in this?” His voice had lost its touch of wry amusement, becoming menacing.
This was a dangerous man, but Gharek was his equal in that respect. He didn’t flinch or cower, only raised his left hand to show the brand burned into his palm years ago. “I’m her cat’s-paw.”
The merchant’s eyes widened a fraction before he backed away, his mercurial demeanor changing once more to that of genial interest.
“And the offspring that hunts it?”
Gharek shook his head. “Unknown. For now. But there’s no doubt whoever it is has arrived on these shores as well. They can’t ignore the mother-bond lure, nor do they want to.”
“The bond is the bait. Herself wants the offpsring.” Koopman’s smile carried a touch of sly admiration. “There’s a lot to be said of our empress, most of it . . . well, I’m sure you’ve heard a thing or two. But she’s without a doubt ambitious and unafraid to pursue lofty goals. She wants a draga to replace Golnar.”
Gharek didn’t correct his assumption. Dalvila wanted things far more valuable than a replacement ceiling ornament. Koopman didn’t need to know that. “Whoever has the mother-bond right now likely knows its sorcerous nature is valuable but too risky to sell in a regular marketplace. The price they’d want would draw undue attention. They’ll bring it here.”
“And you want me to let you know when that happens?” Koopman casually puffed a smoke ring into the air. “I can do that. For a price.”
“Not just let me know. I want you to buy the mother-bond and hold it until I can retrieve it from you.”
Koopman’s guffaw was loud and disbelieving. “Do you have any idea what an artifact like that would go for in the Maesor? I’m a middleman, friend, not one of the Spider’s cushy-born nobles with more wealth than brains who spend their coin by collecting valuable and illegal trinkets. For a fee, I’ll pass along the information that the mother-bond has surfaced in the Maesor. You’re out of your head if you think I’ll penury myself to buy it.”
A reasonable refusal, and Gharek had expected it. He fished a purse bulging with belshas from inside his tunic and held it up for Koopman to see. “This is for keeping watch and sending a message when the mother-bond shows up here. Send a proctor of your choice to the palace tomorrow. I’ll be there waiting with an amount that should cover the cost of buying and holding it. Keep it an honest exchange,” he warned. “If you think to steal from me, make sure you deem it worth your life, because I’ll see to it the empress knows who stole from her.”
Koopman paled, but his expression remained stoic. He eyed the pouch of belshas. “No palace. Bring the retainer to me here.”
Gharek shrugged and offered a short bow. “Then our business is finished. I thank you for your time.” He turned away, careful to avoid the hints of chilly shadow peeking out from the rug’s fringe. He made it to the threshold before Koopman’s frustrated exhalation sounded behind him.
“Wait.” Koopman strode past him to block the exit. “Day after tomorrow, levy day, at dawn. Everyone will be hiding in their homes to avoid paying the publicans. The fewer people about, the better for me. I’ll come myself.”
Gharek didn’t blame Koopman for not sending a factor. The size of the retainer precluded trusting anyone to actually return and hand it over to the merchant. “I’ll be at
the palace gates waiting.”
With the first part of their bargaining finished and his fingertips virtually touching enough money to make him wealthier than many lower-ranking Kraelian nobles, Koopman displayed a far more jovial demeanor than when Gharek had first stepped into the tent. “Come. Stay a little longer and share a pipe. I’ve heard of Herself’s cat’s-paw but never thought I’d meet him in person.” Or wanted to. The last sentiment hung in the air between them.
Declining the invitation, Gharek exited Koopman’s tent. He ignored the blind guard’s farewell and left the Maesor behind him. For the rest of the day, he suffered a vague sense of horror at the idea that he’d abandoned a tiny part of himself in the otherworldly market, a part the Maesor kept and fed upon, as if it were a living beast that took sustenance from those who traveled its paths and traded in its sanctuary.
CHAPTER TEN
I should have followed through with my first thought and suffocated you when you were born.” Hamod seethed with a quiet fury.
The words might have flayed Halani had she not heard them before. Instead, she faced her uncle, meeting his angry gaze with a stoic one of her own. “And you should have listened when I told you not to buy that damn draga bone from those two.”
“It wouldn’t matter if you hadn’t decided to play nursemaid for some other mercenary looking to steal it back!” His rising volume drew curious looks from passersby, and Hamod lowered his voice again. “I need to make a few arrangements with Azarion before I leave here. By the time I get back, your ‘friend’ better be dead or gone, or preferably both.”
They stood just outside one of the smaller qaras loaned to Hamod during his stay with the Savatar. He motioned for her to follow him inside, away from curious eyes. Before he could harangue her further, Halani cut him off.
“You can’t go back. Not while you have the draga bone.” His eyes narrowed, and she hurried to explain. “Even if Malachus is searching for it, he likely isn’t the only one. Something that rare commands a high price. You know it. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have bought it from those two mercenaries. They knew it too. They also knew they had to get as far away from it as they could. If you come back to camp, you’re putting yourself and all of us at risk. I could poison Malachus right now or have the men drown him in one of the water barrels. It won’t matter. Another hunter will take his place. For all we know, Malachus is a member of a guild of hunters or a family of them who’ll want to know why one of their own met with a bad end. That bone brings misfortune to any who don’t rightfully possess it.” And if the next hunter was as resilient as Malachus, he’d be just as hard to dispatch.
“I rightfully possess it,” Hamod snapped. “I bought and paid for it.”
Spoken like a true free trader. Halani wanted to punch him for being so muleheaded. “You know what I mean. If you refuse to get rid of the bone, sell it in Domora. You bought it for a song. If you sell it for just double what you paid, you’ll make a profit.”
A calculating gleam brightened his eyes. “It’s worth far more than that.”
Halani growled. “Then sell the damn thing and enjoy the windfall!”
He could even sell it to Malachus. Or give it to him. The thought crossed her mind and quickly fled. If the draga bone did belong to him, it was the proper thing to do, but suggesting such a magnanimous gesture went beyond preposterous. Hamod would go from thinking her foolishly charitable to believing her crazed. And she doubted Malachus would respond well to the offer of selling back to him what was already his.
“Domora is the perfect place to resell it,” Hamod said, his gaze no longer focused on Halani. “In the Maesor.”
Halani blanched. This was not at all what she intended when she suggested the capital as the place to sell the draga bone. Once the summer capital, Domora was now the Empire’s only capital, with a large percentage of wealthy citizens, among them the royal court. Draga bone commanded a fair price on the collector’s market, enough to make it worth a treasure seeker’s trouble to dig pits in out-of-the-way places in the hope of finding some. Hamod was right that the one he’d bought from the mercenaries was worth more. It was infused with magic. To try to sell it on the open market invited an execution, so he’d have to lie and simply tout it as a piece of precious bone dug up from an abandoned mine or plowed up in a farmer’s field. Unfortunately in this case, Hamod’s ability for intuitively knowing something’s worth reared its ugly head, inciting his avarice.
“Are you mad?” This time it was she who had to lower her voice. “Even if you knew how to access the Maesor, do you understand the kind of risk you’re taking? People who traffic there don’t always come back from their excursions, and when they do, they aren’t always the same.” Rumors abounded of unfortunates who’d done business in the Maesor and returned very different from when they left, sometimes physically, sometimes mentally, sometimes both.
“Mind your tongue,” he snarled. “I’ve had enough disrespect from you to last me a lifetime.” Halani clenched her teeth in an effort to obey. Hamod’s hot glare almost set her hair on fire. “Here’s how this will work, and you’ll abide by it, or I’ll shackle you to the back of my wagon and make you walk all the way to Wellspring Holt, and that’s after I draw and quarter the man you’ve lavished all your healing skills on so far.”
At her twitching silence, he continued. “I’ll take most of the caravan with me to Domora, including Asil.” He bared his teeth in warning when a whine of protest escaped her lips. “She’s safer with me than she is with you and that hunter, and it isn’t as if I’m taking everyone with me when I visit the Maesor. You and a few others will stay behind for now, secure all the supplies and gifts Azarion has given us, and complete any outstanding business. Take your time and don’t be too enthusiastic with helping your patient heal fast. I’ll use the opportunity to put distance between us and make a profit from the bone artifact. He’s welcome to hunt for the thing in the Maesor all he wants after that, and good luck to him. Understand?” Halani nodded. “Good. When you go back, meet with Kursak to decide who goes with me and who stays. Whoever goes, send them and their wagons here. We’ll depart from the Savatar camp when they arrive.”
Halani wanted to weep. He didn’t take Asil to keep her safe but to punish Halani. To be away from her mother, unable to watch over her . . . she’d age a decade from worry before they met up again in Domora.
Once he was assured of her acquiescence, Hamod’s temper subsided but not his disapproval. A coldness settled over him as they finalized their plans. When Halani made to leave and return to the free trader camp, Hamod stopped her at the qara door. “Halani.”
She turned, hiding her shiver. She and her uncle had always had a contentious relationship, but his reaction to her now was different, darker and unforgiving. In that moment, she realized not all good deeds were necessarily wise ones.
“This isn’t a negotiation between us, nor a barter. Make no mistake, it isn’t me bending to your will. Your suggestion for selling the draga bone in Domora is a good one and stands to profit all of us. You kept your counsel and didn’t tell the others of the transaction between me and those traders, and for that I’m in your debt, but you rode the line of betrayal when you took in the hunter, knowing how I’d feel and the risk such an act exposed me to. Do something like it again, and I will exile you from the caravan. Permanently.”
She left the Savatar camp after that, reeling from his threat and speechless with rage. Despite the circumstances in which she now found herself, Halani still didn’t regret bringing Malachus to their camp. It was the right thing to do, though what was right wasn’t always what was convenient. The philosophy didn’t blunt the sharpness of Hamod’s threat or the way it cut through her as no other insensitive remark from him ever had. He would force her to leave, separate her from Asil, who wouldn’t understand why her daughter had abandoned her.
Kursak met her at the corral, took one look at her face
, and pulled her into a brief embrace. “Didn’t go well, did it?”
Halani blinked hard to keep back tears. “No,” she said, voice unsteady. “Though it went much as you warned. We need to gather as soon as everyone is back from the market. Uncle has plans, and they include all of us.”
Still smarting from Hamod’s words, she sought out Asil at their wagon. The door was closed and the steps tucked away. During hot days like today, her mother liked to sit on a blanket outside the wagon and either sew or bead as she called out to or chatted with other caravan members. No blanket or Asil held court at the moment.
Halani had a good idea where her mother had gone and made her way to the provender wagon turned sickbed. She stopped at the tableau in front of her. A small crowd had gathered at the wagon, seated in a semicircle around a very pale Malachus, who reclined against a saddle draped in blankets. Shirtless, but with a cover draped across his lap for modesty, he was a scarred vision of ill health and healing wounds. Asil sat on one side of him, Talen on the other, both women alternately offering him food and drink or endlessly adjusting his covering as if the thing tried to creep away on its own. Three more women sat in front of him, two with their young children. All listened with avid expressions as he read from a book opened on his lap.
Five guilty expressions turned toward her when she cleared her throat to signal her approach. Malachus only smiled, gesturing for her to find a seat among his audience. “Welcome, mistress.”
Talen, wearing a rueful look, explained. “I know he’s still healing, Halani, but it was miserably hot in the wagon, so we helped him outside.”
“And took excellent care of me,” Malachus said in support of the decision. He held up a cup for her to see. “Sweet water, good conversation, and a cool breeze. I feel much better already.”
“Say you aren’t mad, Hali.” Asil gazed at her wide-eyed. “Malachus said he didn’t mind.”
