by Marc Turner
“In return for payment of the Levy, yes. And since you have not paid the Levy in full…”
There was a note to Imerle’s voice Agenta couldn’t place, and the kalischa found herself wondering if the woman knew more about this affair than she was letting on. The Storm Lords were rumored to be responsible for most of the piracy in the Sabian Sea. Agenta wouldn’t have put it past the emira to specifically target Gilgamarian ships now that the Ruling Council had withheld part of its tribute.
Pernay said, “Even if the Storm Lords were to honor your claim, there remains the question of what compensation is payable. You will appreciate the price of duskstones has fallen significantly with the glut in supply. I fear the value of your cargo would be worth far less now than it was when the Gadfly set sail.”
Rethell said, “Compensation is payable at the value of the goods before they were lost, Chief Minister, not after.”
“If you say so.”
Silence.
Rethell looked from Pernay to the emira then back again, his face hardening all the while. Maybe now Agenta would get to witness the outburst she’d been anticipating. Instead her father said, “I see we are wasting our time here.”
Finally the message had got through. And neither Imerle nor Pernay was disputing his charge.
Agenta watched her father spin on his heel and make his way toward the underwater passage. An ignominious withdrawal, but what had he expected, throwing himself on the emira’s charity like that? There was nothing worse than a man come seeking a handout.
As the sound of her father’s footsteps receded, Agenta looked at Imerle.
The emira raised an eyebrow, and the kalischa shrugged before turning to follow him.
* * *
Kempis had been waiting in an alley opposite Inneez’s house for more than two bells. The shadows he’d sheltered in when he arrived had now melted away to leave him exposed to the midday sun. He was tempted to abandon his vigil, but of all his sources, Inneez was most likely to be able to point him at whoever had arranged the contracts on the Drifters. Nothing went on in Olaire—nothing shady at least—without the merchant hearing of it.
The street in front of Inneez’s house was lined with ketar trees, and between the trunks were stalls selling sandals, susha robes, spices, and jewelry crafted from fish bones or podfish carapaces. The space usually filled by Inneez’s stand was taken up by that of a merchant trading in Elescorian carpets who was haggling with a blueblood over a rug. To the right was a stall of cages containing Shamanon toy dogs of a hundred different sizes and colors. Their yapping rose in pitch as a Hundari tribesman strode past holding skewers of steaming meat. Probably recognize their own when they smell them.
Kempis swung his gaze to Inneez’s house. Its ground-floor windows were boarded, and countless tiles were missing from its roof. Twenty years ago this district had been one of the most sought-after in Olaire, but the rising of the Sabian Sea, and with it the creation of the Deeps and the Shallows, had seen the great and the good move away from the coast and up the slopes of Kalin’s Hill. Now the flooded districts were a hotbed of lawlessness. There were many theories as to why the sea was creeping higher, but to Kempis’s mind the reason was clear: the Storm Lords. It was a clever scam, he conceded—raise the sea to drive down property prices, buy up houses on the cheap, then lower the water levels again and sell at a profit. The only real mystery here was why more people hadn’t seen through the swindle.
The blueblood arguing over the rug brought negotiations to an end by backhanding the merchant across the face and walking away with his prize. No one stopped him. Even the merchant was too busy trying to stem the flood of blood from his busted nose to complain.
It was a similar incident fifteen years ago that had seen Kempis join the Watch. On that occasion it had been the septia’s uncle who was struck. In Yollip’s case, the blow had knocked him to the ground where he’d smashed out his brains on a kerb. Kempis had seen it happen. So had a hundred other people, but the blueblood responsible had never faced charges. A naive Kempis had thought that by joining the Watch he might change that. Nine months of banging his head against a wall of blueblood partisanship had followed. So in the end he’d tracked down the culprit and executed his own secret form of justice.
He could have left the Watch then. Except that afterward there had been an investigation into the blueblood’s demise—and this one had been most thorough. Kempis had had to stick around to muddy the waters. He was still trying to get himself unstuck even now.
As the noble with the stolen rug sauntered off, Kempis committed his face to memory.
A splash of color in the crowd to his right caught the septia’s eye. He recognized Inneez from his rolling gait and the stained yellow silks that swathed his huge frame. One pudgy hand was stuffing sweetmeats into his mouth. Some instinct must have made him glance in Kempis’s direction, and the septia shrank back into the alley. To conceal his uniform he had borrowed a hooded susha robe from one of the stalls in the Salter Bazaar a few streets back. There was no way Inneez could have pierced the shadows of his cowl, and even if he had, what was the fat man going to do, run?
When Kempis risked another look out, he saw Inneez had made it to the steps of his house. The merchant drew a key from a pocket and began to climb the stairs.
Kempis slipped from his hiding place and jostled his way through the crowd in the main street. An Untarian woman flared her gills at him as he pushed past. He darted in front of a cart drawn by two temlocks, causing the animals to snort and toss their heads. The driver swore.
Inneez had reached his door and now looked over his shoulder to discover the cause of the commotion. Suddenly he was fumbling his key in his haste to put it into the lock. Kempis picked up his pace. Reaching the stairs, he bounded up them just as Inneez opened the door and stepped through. The septia got his boot in the door as it was closing and grunted as the wood slammed into his foot. He threw his weight against the door and sent Inneez stumbling back before following him inside and closing the door behind.
He found himself in a dusty room. The walls to either side were lined with glass cabinets, while ahead and to his left was a table. The remainder of the room was veiled in shadow. Inneez turned to confront him, his face illuminated by threads of light filtering between the boards over the windows. He had grown a third chin since Kempis last saw him, and there was a scar below his left eye. A knife materialized in his right hand.
“Put that away,” Kempis said, pulling down his hood.
The merchant’s eyes softened. “Ah, it is you, Septia. I didn’t recognize you, my friend.”
Kempis’s face twisted. All of the Inneezes in Olaire wanted to be his friend, but he had no more use for their friendship than he had for anyone else’s. “You’ve got some explaining to do. Your tip-off about Javon and the stolen blackweed…”
“You did not find the blackweed, mesa?”
“Oh, I found the blackweed, all right—ten crates of the stuff, just as you said. When I followed the shipment to that warehouse in Grange Street, though, imagine my surprise when I find not Javon waiting for it, but Hegan Harl. You two have history, right?”
The merchant spread his hands. “The fickleness of fate.”
“I don’t like being used to settle your scores, Inneez. You owe me.”
The fat man’s expression was pained. “Friends should never speak of debts, mesa.” He looked at the table to his right. “What’s mine is yours.”
Kempis followed his gaze. On the table was a collection of objects including what appeared to be a shield fashioned from the shell of a giant turtle. At the back, a strap had been fixed to the center, and there was a handle by its rim. The septia slipped his left arm through the strap and gripped the handle. There was a stain on the front of the shield. “You might at least have wiped the blood off!”
Inneez began lighting the candles about the room. “That shield is made from a scale of a khalid esgaril. Impervious to steel, fire, even sor
cery.”
“Then how did you make the holes for the strap and the handle?”
The merchant’s smile wavered. “Inneez is a resourceful man.”
Kempis replaced the shield on the table. Beside it was a silver necklace with a purple jewel. He brushed the jewel with a finger.
“A rare piece,” Inneez said in a reverential tone. “Blessed by the White Lady herself. So long as the pendant hangs about your neck, you will never take a mortal wound.”
“Right. So if I recover from the wound, the White Lady gets the credit, but if I don’t, there ain’t no one around to come looking for a refund.”
“You like it? Take it as my gift to you.”
Truly worthless, then. “I didn’t come here for your useless trinkets. I came for information.”
“Ah! My most valuable commodity!”
“You heard about the Drifters, I take it.”
Inneez lit a final candle before moving to stand by the table. The room filled with the scent of moonblossom. “A most regrettable business.”
“Friends of yours, were they?”
“All men are my friends.”
“You’ll be keen to help me find out who killed them, then.”
Inneez smiled faintly. Taking out a jar from one of the folds in his robe, he withdrew a sweetmeat and placed it in his mouth. As he chewed, he gazed at Kempis with an expression showing both wariness and curiosity.
The septia hesitated. Whatever he told the merchant would be round the whole city by nightfall, but then knowing Inneez he’d probably heard the story already from someone at the Watchstation.
“It was a pro job,” Kempis said at last. “Killer used sorcery.”
“What manner of sorcery?”
“Who’s asking the questions here? How do I go about hiring me an assassin who uses magic?”
“Mesa has forgotten our conversation from last year? The disciples of the Antlered God—”
“I know the Lord of the Hunt’s work. This weren’t it.”
Inneez licked his fingers. “Alas, I am but a humble merchant.”
“Then point me in the direction of someone who isn’t.”
The fat man’s look said he hoped he’d misheard.
Outside, the dogs in the cages started yapping. Inneez placed his jar of sweetmeats on the table and crossed to the window before peering through a gap in the boards.
“Relax,” Kempis said, gesturing to his hood. “I came wearing this, remember.” He paused. “Of course, I ain’t decided whether I’ll be wearing it when I leave.”
Inneez swung round. “Our usual arrangements—”
“There weren’t time.”
“If someone saw you come here…” The merchant clasped his hands together and turned back to the window. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its affable note. “These are serious people, mesa.”
The septia helped himself to a sweetmeat. “So am I.”
“Serious people who value their privacy.”
“I want a word, is all. For all you know, I might have work for them meself.”
“On a septia’s salary?”
He’s got me there. “Give me a name.”
“You’ll put a target on both our backs.”
“A name, Inneez. Otherwise I’ll get it from someone else, and when I talk with whoever you’re protecting I’ll make sure your name comes up.”
The merchant did not respond.
The dogs’ yapping had risen to a cacophony. Inneez peered out into the street again. Had he seen something to trouble him, or was he simply playing for time? Kempis resisted an urge to join him at the window. Instead he helped himself to another sweetmeat. He couldn’t see Inneez’s hands, and he remembered the knife from earlier. Was the merchant desperate enough to try something stupid? When you backed a flintcat into a corner, like as not it showed its claws.
Inneez turned to face him. His dark eyes glittered in the candlelight. He looked about the room as if taking in its details for the last time. “I can trust your discretion, Septia?”
“I’m a reasonable man.”
The merchant stared at him as if he could read the septia’s intent in his eyes. Kempis returned his gaze without blinking. Finally Inneez sighed. “The man you want is called Enli.”
“Last name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Perfect. I’ll just grab me a copy of the census and start at ‘A.’”
“He has an address in Dalamine Street. Near the Round.”
“The Dalamine Street?”
“Like I said, these are serious people.”
“What’s his front?”
“Spices. Ganda from Soren, blayfire from Kal Kartin. He is the principal broker for Fitch and Rambler, as well as the Excel cartel in Palana Utara.”
The names meant nothing to Kempis, but then he’d always made it his business to keep out of blueblood affairs. Now it seemed he would have to tread on a few pedicured toes. Assuming, of course, Inneez isn’t spinning me a line.
“If you’re making this up, Inneez, I’ll be back for you. You can go deep under, but you’ll have to come up for air eventually. And when you do, I’ll be waiting for you.”
The merchant’s expression was hurt. “We’re even now, mesa? No more debts between us, yes?”
Kempis put another sweetmeat into his mouth. “Friends should never talk of debts.”
* * *
The doorway to Ambassador Lydanto Hood’s office was covered by a curtain of crystals that tinkled as Agenta led her father through. To her left the ambassador sat behind a desk with his nose in a book. He looked up as she entered, then glanced about as if unsure where he was. A moment later he roused himself, setting his book down before rising and making his way round the desk with such haste he banged his hip on a corner.
He bowed to Rethell before taking Agenta’s hand and lifting it to his lips. “Kalischa,” he said in his harsh Grantorian accent. “I am enchanted to be seeing you again.”
“Ambassador.”
His look turned grave, and Agenta braced herself for the inevitable.
“I am most sorry to be hearing about the death of your brother,” he said. “His exuberance was an example to us all.”
A hundred quips came to the kalischa’s mind, but she had learned the safest thing to do in these situations was to match the ambassador’s weighty expression and mumble a thank-you. Why was it that no matter how many people plagued her with their good wishes, there were always more waiting round the corner? As if the best way to help someone get over a bereavement was to bring it up as often as possible.
The black bags under Lydanto’s eyes suggested he’d endured a sleepless night, yet his posting to Olaire was evidently agreeing with him, for his stomach had expanded to overhang his belt and his nose was even rosier than Agenta remembered it. His extravagantly curled mustache was wilting in the heat. Years ago he had been a rising star on Gilgamar’s Ruling Council until he’d lost his seat following some misadventure, the details of which Agenta had never learned. Bankrupt and in disgrace, Lydanto had faced a spell in the Carsian Mines to settle his debts. Then Rethell had paid off his creditors and taken him in as tutor to Agenta and Zelin. Two years later the Grantorian’s return to favor was completed when he was appointed ambassador to Olaire.
Agenta had been sad to see him go. He’d taught her history and accounts, and about the machinations of the Ruling Council. But he’d also taught her how to brew juripa spirits so strong they could fell a temlock. And how to mix rum and ganja fire to form a tonic that exploded when lit. He’d even tried drinking the stuff once and lost his voice for four days afterward. Meeting him again was worth the journey to Olaire alone.
Lydanto ushered Agenta and her father to two chairs in front of his desk, then lurched to a table on the opposite wall. On the table was a collection of decanters and glasses. Most of the glasses had been used, as if the Grantorian had just finished hosting a gathering. A gathering of one, if Agenta remembered
his drinking habits correctly.
“Can I be offering you a drink?” Lydanto asked her.
“I’d say ‘whatever you’re having,’ but I want to be able to walk out of here when we’re finished.”
The ambassador chuckled, then lifted a decanter filled with a thick black liquid. The way it clung to the sides of the decanter reminded Agenta uncomfortably of tollen. “The Olairians are having a delicacy,” Lydanto said. “Apilone, it is called, made from the ink of the apil fish—”
“Water will be fine,” Agenta cut in.
“Of course. And for you, Kalisch?”
Rethell shook his head. Slumped in his chair, he looked like he’d lost another member of his family. Though since Agenta was now all the family he had, perhaps not.
“Do you mind if I…?” Lydanto said, already pouring himself a glass of apilone. He offered the water glass to Agenta before picking up the other and seating himself at the desk. On it was a tray with an untouched bowl of honeyfish soup. Lydanto lifted the tray and placed it on the floor behind his desk. Behind and to the Grantorian’s left was another doorway, covered, as the door to the office was, by a crystal curtain.
Agenta nodded at it. “These crystal curtains … are they a local custom?”
“Soon I am thinking they will be. Olaire is suffering from an infestation of Chameleon priests.”
“Oh?”
“A year ago the priesthood was arriving at an understanding with the emira. Since that time they are more and more being found in places where they should not be. With these curtains, what I am not seeing I can at least be hearing.”
“What you are not seeing? I thought Chameleons were only invisible for so long as they are standing still.”
“So they are. Yet if one were to be coming into the room when my back was turned…”
Agenta sipped her water. “You think the emira is employing them as spies?”
“Assassins too, I am hearing.”
“I thought the Storm Lords’ charter prohibited associations with deities.”
