The Betrayed

by Igor Ljubuncic

  The records stared at him blankly. They had given him all they’ve got. There was nothing more. He needed to go one step further. But where?

  Unconsciously, he tapped a finger against his front teeth, thinking. Missing people. Lots of workers from several branches of industry seemed to be missing. The numbers fit rather well. It seemed that Shipmaster Perano had ferried the lot of them to some unknown place. Nespos seemed most likely to point in the direction. Then, there was Shipwright Boune. Armin had almost lost the thread of his investigation with him. The man seemed superfluous in the scheme of things. But digging into the old records had finally yielded a useful piece of information. Perano had liked to gamble, after all. He had had a huge debt— to Shipwright Boune. The Cormorant had been mortgaged as partial payment, even though no one among Perano’s crew had known that.

  Whatever he’d been involved in, Perano had probably told Boune, in exchange for his debt. It felt plausible.

  But what? And where?

  Armin rose. The Grand Archive had told its story. He needed a new bard.

  Two things still nagged him. Money. Someone had paid for all those one-way cruises. Someone had financed the ship to sail somewhere and return empty. And then, there were the Feorans, a dark and unfriendly mystery.

  He sat down. Maybe…

  It took him an hour to write down a plan. He greatly hoped it would work.

  Wearing a disguise was a simple thing. Being a man with a skull that looked like a perfect egg, even a few hairs anywhere about his features made for a dramatic change. Accompanied by his second wife, Galina, he was just an eccentric, rich Sirtai.

  Hand in hand, they entered the bank. Armin was convinced banks were a Sirtai invention. They were quite practical at keeping one’s fortune safe. And while the rich had considered each other’s wealth as potential loot while it had still been kept in the privacy of their mansions, with their gold bunched together in the vaults of banks, they had all begun to protect the collective assets as if they were wholly their own.

  Banks were guarded by the finest and most ruthless soldiers who could be hired anywhere in the world. Beneath the offices, where clerks worked and served customers, underground tunnels stretched, layer after layer, with murder holes and traps and fortifications that eventually led to the vaults where valuables were kept.

  The best of all, the hired killers worked directly for the banks. They did not answer to any of the nobles. Banks were independent and milked a heavy tax from the posh to stay that way. No one wanted someone else’s mercenaries in those tunnels. The nameless, unaffiliated guards were the perfect solution.

  In Eybalen, some of the bank chiefs sat on the council. Others felt too powerful to make the effort, knowing the city would not do anything against the interests of the banks. But the fragile link that some of the more meddlesome bank officials felt they needed to exert on the city was Armin’s one and only hope now.

  If the banks had a say in High Council, there could be records of it somewhere. This could be his grand unifier, the solid grease that oiled the axles.

  Galina was wearing a soft green dress with deep cleavage. A strategic weapon. The continentals were conservative people, ashamed of their bodies and carnal urges. They often repressed them behind masks of false morals and excessive clothing. He hoped to catch them off-balance.

  “My lord, my lady, can I help you?” a clerk greeted them.

  “I would like to consider depositing a hundred thousand gold marks in your bank.”

  The words worked like magic. Within seconds, they were ushered into a private room, offered drinks and sweets. They were told the bank governor would see them soon.

  A door opened. An elderly and well-groomed gentleman entered. He had the look of a reformed thug, one of the ambitious middle class who fought tooth and nail to become higher class. Armin was familiar with the type from his homeland. Weak men could not be bank governors in either Tuba Tuba or Eybalen.

  “It is my honor. I am Elliot, the governor of Bank Trust.” The man offered his hand.

  Armin accepted the customary grip, a strange gesture for him. He could not understand why people had to touch when greeting one another.

  “I am Ronald Wan’der Norssin. My wife, Gladiola.”

  The governor nodded. “Another one of your countrymen is in Eybalen. A famous person.”

  Armin faked genuine surprise. His false brows did climb this time. “Really, what’s his name?”

  Elliot rolled his eyes, thinking. “I think it’s Armin… something.”

  “Armin Wan’der Markssin!” Armin cheered gleefully. “A brilliant man.” Galina dug her nails into his thigh, below the level of the mahogany desk separating them from the governor.

  The bank official smiled for a moment, but no longer than necessary. “My assistant tells me you are interested in depositing a sizable amount of money in our bank. We would like to congratulate you on your choice.”

  Armin spread his arms. “I have made some checks. You do offer higher insurance claims and better rates, despite slightly higher fees. Your bank seems like a sensible choice for the beginning of my business.”

  Elliot crossed his legs. “Oh, you’re starting business here? If it’s not too much to ask, would you mind sharing your idea?”

  Armin let his eyes gleam conspiratorially. “It will be of great interest to the city’s dignitaries.” At his cue, Galina casually leaned. Elliot caught himself staring before he disciplined his eyes straight forward. “Rare herbs, spices, and potions to enhance stamina.”

  “Stamina?” the governor asked, his eyes clouded.

  “Stamina,” Armin repeated. Galina squirmed silkily.

  “Ah, stamina,” Elliot said, understanding dawning. “Very sensible choice.”

  Galina leaned, whispering something in Armin’s ear. He mimicked a fleeting frown. Elliot blinked once, trying to decipher this innocent expression.

  “My wife just reminded me, how silly of me. Before we draw an official contract, I will need to ask you a few questions, if I may. It regards some of my smaller endeavors here in Eybalen. I would like to be sure of the status of my Caytorean assets before we proceed.”

  Elliot spread his arms. “Of course.” Men could be very patient when it came to a hundred thousand gold coins.

  Armin produced a list from a folder, written in Continental. He handed it over to the governor. The man read carefully, nodding once or twice as his eyes traced a familiar name. Armin had spent a lot of time and work perfecting the details, but with the whole of the Grand Archive at his disposal, it had not been too difficult.

  Elliot paused when his eyes read: Shipwright Boune.

  “Something of a problem?” Armin asked.

  The governor hesitated. “I have just…one of our former clients, that’s all.”

  “Former?” Armin let the word sound like a death sentence. Galina leaned back.

  “No, you misunderstand. Shipwright Boune was one of our more valuable clients. Alas, he passed away some time ago.”

  Armin and Galina exchanged a few quick words in Sirtai. He knew that Elliot did not understand it. Squiggle and his gang were very useful in many regards, even when it came to prowling the upper city.

  “I was not aware that some of my assets might be in jeopardy,” Armin said coldly. He frowned. “Was it not the responsibility of Bank Trust to inform me that a liability has occurred?”

  Governor Elliot was not a man to be easily cowed. “I was not aware of any connection between you and late Shipwright Boune, so I cannot confirm your claim. But I will definitely look into it. This might require an investigation.”

  Armin rose to leave. His wife followed suit. “I suggest you look into this omission. I’m afraid we will not be able to conduct business unless I can be sure there are no monetary issues regarding my assets in Eybalen. As for the investigation, my compatriot Markssin is one of the finest minds in the world. You might want to lease his services.”

  Elliot quickly suppresse
d a look of panic. He had not yet seen a copper from this new, eccentric customer, but he could smell money. Besides, whenever people preferred their pride over money, it was always a bad sign.

  Then, his head rolled the names of other people working with Ronald Wan’der Norssin. The sums rose frantically. He succumbed. “Please, my lord, have a seat. I shall remedy the situation immediately.”

  Armin remained standing for a second, then sat down. People like Elliot wanted things to go their way, even if they did not know their way was someone else’s. To leave now would have angered the thug. People with power did not like to be snubbed.

  “Ian!” Elliot shouted. A clerk materialized from one of the side doors. “Here’s a list. All transactions for the past…”

  “Year,” Armin added.

  “Year. Now.”

  Ian disappeared.

  They sat for a while in silence. Galina stared at Elliot without blinking, even when he met her gaze twice before lowering it uncomfortably.

  The governor gathered some of his earlier composure. “What kind of business did you conduct with late Shipwright Boune?” he asked casually.

  “He built and leased me his ships. Some of them were new keels, others were carracks captained by a variety of Eybalen shipmasters. I would use them when and how I saw fit.”

  Elliot nodded. Sometimes, all people needed was a flake of thyme in a bowl of shit to think it was broth.

  It took almost an hour for Ian to return. Armin managed the small talk quite well, giving away very little, never letting the other’s curiosity draw him toward uncharted territories. The bank clerk was followed by another man, both of them buckling under the weight of documents.

  “I will keep these in my office. You are welcome to come by any time you need,” Elliot assured him.

  “I might send some of my slave accountants,” Armin said, as if the matters of small numbers were too trivial for him. “What I would like to know now is the status of my assets with late Shipwright Boune.”

  Elliot handed him the file. Armin suppressed a smile and opened it. He began reading patiently, going over details he had seen in the Grand Archive so many times. But now, the items had a different face, one marked in numbers.

  Expenditures, earnings, loans…he pored over the pages. Here and there, he paused, wrote something in a notebook, as if he had stumbled upon a minor accountant’s mistake.

  Suddenly, figures began to rise, dramatically.

  “I do not recall making any large payments to Shipwright Boune on this date.” He pointed. Then, he produced a number of false accounting reports from one of his own binders, all written in Sirtai, and began to compare. Elliot was overwhelmed with details.

  “Ian, here,” the governor barked. “My assistant will check if that sum was deposited in your name.” He leaned forward. “Usually, we have a very strict policy regarding the privacy of our customers. But I believe it is in the best interest of both our sides that we start our cooperation with a clean slate.”

  Armin smiled. “Your effort is highly appreciated.”

  Ian returned and placed a folded note before the governor. Elliot smiled. “It appears that Shipwright Boune had other investors besides you.”

  The investigator nodded. “That’s understandable.”

  “We also believe that Shipwright Boune conducted business through several banks and not just our own. Therefore, I cannot guarantee that the information you will receive here is complete. But the balance is positive, and there are no known debts in our records.”

  Armin leaned back. “That’s reassuring. Of course, my accountant will have to check all of the records in detail, but the matter of Shipwright Boune’s death worries me.”

  “Of course,” Elliot agreed, encouraged. He felt there could be a nice juicy deal after all.

  Armin looked at his wife. “There’s one last thing.”

  The governor kept his smile pasted. “Yes, Lord Norssin.”

  “That figure stands apart from the rest,” Armin said, pointing at the solitary line again. “I would appreciate if you could tell me who financed Shipwright Boune on that particular occasion?”

  Elliot blinked with shock. “I…I believe I cannot divulge that information.”

  Armin cracked his knuckles in feigned irritation. “You see, round that particular time, I lost a very important business deal. I would be most interested to know who my rivals are. Now, I’m aware that you must preserve the privacy of your other customers.”

  Galina bent and reached for the small bag Armin had brought with him. Unconsciously, the governor straightened in his chair, craning his neck ever so slightly. Armin’s wife placed the bag on the desk.

  “Inside this bag is a letter of credit worth twenty thousand gold marks. A payment of goodwill that should guarantee a fruitful business relationship.”

  Elliot did not touch the bag, but his mind was racing. Armin was well aware that even the most decadent popinjay in Eybalen could not easily shrug off such a sum.

  The governor clicked his tongue. It was his turn to attempt blackmail. “How can Bank Trust serve your interests?”

  Armin looked the governor in the eye without blinking. “My analysts estimate that the demand for rare spices and potions is absolutely staggering. My intentions are to establish a trading post in Eybalen, with exclusive distribution rights for at least a decade.”

  “How would you choose the distributor?”

  “Most likely a public tender, but with worthy partners and a strong business relationship established beforehand, it might not be necessary.”

  Elliot’s blank expression was ridiculous. “What are your demands in return for your initial deposit?”

  Armin rolled his eyes, as if recalling a careful calculation. “Thirty to one, with seventeen marks per thousand annual interest, with fifty marks per thousand share after the third year of distribution.”

  Elliot whistled without a sound. “Three million marks is a considerable sum even for some of the oldest and biggest guilds in the city.”

  “With the expected yearly circulation of more than two, I believe the initial investment should not matter much.”

  That was it. Armin had spent the best part of his cunning both as an investigator and a rich Sirtai. Now, he had to hope that the bank governor would be greedy enough to forfeit the traditions of his bank and tell Armin what he needed to know.

  Elliot was not writing, but he was calculating. His eyes flitted rapidly as he crunched numbers. Armin knew that his little show would not survive the scrutiny of a team of seasoned accountants, but he did not need it to. He had no intention of elongating the short and mythical life of Ronald Wan’der Norssin. It was an outrage and a diplomatic scandal, but those things should never bother a real investigator.

  The governor sighed. His hand reached and drew the bag closer. Armin’s price for a name. People got killed for far, far less.

  “Please, I must insist, this conversation never took place.”

  Armin nodded. “You have my word.”

  Elliot handed the folded note. Armin took it and read.

  It said: Davar.

  CHAPTER 24

  Ayrton was not sure why Matriarch Alda had decided to heed his advice in the end. For some reason, she must have realized going back to Talmath would be suicide. He did not believe she had really spoken to her goddess, but he was grateful for it nonetheless.

  He hated the patriarchs from Talmath, though. He was shocked by their blatant hypocrisy, by their disregard for the lives of the people who trusted them. The patriarchs were supposed to defend the people from the perils of the world; they were not supposed to hurl their souls into the Abyss.

  Their motivation for lying and deceiving the people still eluded him. Twisting reality to boost morale was a known trick. Denying reality was suicide. The Caytoreans were just too strong.

  It was obvious that fewer people would answer the Call if they knew the Cause was lost. But what were the patriarchs trying to ach
ieve by sacrificing these people? Stall the enemy? Hurt him as much as possible before the imminent defeat?

  Whatever the reason, the patriarchs did not relent. They went into villages, blessed people and held speeches, rousing the young and the foolish to a doomed campaign. The convoy would march on west, while masses of badly armed peasants walked into the jaws of death in the east.

  Small groups of fighters passed them all the time, every day. Bad news of the war had not yet reached the western parts of the Territories. People were buoyant and defiant. No one spoke of the tens of thousands of refugees and the countless dead left to rot in towns and villages. Hordes of soldiers of the gods, many of them Outsiders, rode to fight the invaders, unaware of the horrible fate that had met so many of their comrades.

  Ayrton was convinced that within days defections would begin, turning to outright mutinies and brigandage. Unfortunately, too many Outsiders had not really given up their former ways, mainly pushed them away, out of sight.

  But he would not let that happen to him. He had sworn.

  His little army was down to only about a thousand people, soldier and civilian alike. Most of the refugees had melted away. Those who remained followed his lead because they had nothing else left in their miserable lives. Yet others followed only because someone led and made the decision for them. And there was a group Ayrton did not like, a group of men with avaricious looks on their savage faces, who respected only fear. His domain over them was flimsy at best. He knew he could not control them indefinitely. Sooner or later, they were going to challenge his authority, and then blood would be shed.

  Sheep and wolves, all following a fool.

  His self-spelled portent of doom came two days later. A band of Outsiders tried to rape Matriarch Alda.

  Ayrton awoke to a torrent of screams and shouting. He ran out of his tent into a rainy night, naked, with a sword in hand. Several Outsiders lay dead or dying, their blood mingling with rainwater. Sloshing through mud, he fought his way toward the epicenter of calamity.