by Marc Turner
“Formal associations, yes. But while the Chameleon high priest is never straying far from the side of Imerle, who is to say their association is anything more than friendship? Or that the emira is not a devotee of the god?” Lydanto stroked his mustache. “Imerle has been proving herself adept at exploiting the areas of grayness in the charter.”
“As we have just witnessed for ourselves,” Agenta said. Since her father was intent on wallowing in self-pity, it seemed the storytelling duties would fall on the kalischa, so she told Lydanto about the meeting in the throne room.
“Misfortune most unhappy,” the ambassador said, turning to Rethell. “Though you are not the only one to be finding yourself in such a predicament, if that is being of any consolation.”
“It isn’t,” Rethell muttered.
“The Mercantile Court is—how do you say?—bursting from the seams with people seeking compensation for lost ships. Yet none of them has seen so much as a copper clipping. The Master of Courts is drowning each case in technicalities, bamboozling the claimants with trivialities of form and procedure.” He rubbed his hands together. “I will be representing your interests, of course. Strictly speaking, I am Gilgamar’s representative in Olaire, not yours, but I am seeing no conflict of interest in this.”
Just as Agenta was seeing no hope of success. What were the courts, after all, but a way to give a ruler’s wants a veneer of false legitimacy?
Rethell shook himself. “Was I right in what I said to the chief minister? About compensation for the duskstones being calculated according to their value before they were stolen?”
“An excellent question!” Leaning back, Lydanto reached for one of the books on a bookcase behind him. He leafed through it, then slapped a page with the back of his hand. “Ah, yes! Here it is. The Axmarl and its cargo of Elescorian brandy, lost three years ago to a storm off Andros. The owner of the ship sought to argue the value of the cargo had increased since the ship went down, and it was the Master of Courts—this is excellent!—who was successfully arguing—”
Rethell brought one hand down in a chopping motion. “If I am forced to play this out, how long before the court reaches a judgment?”
“Perhaps a year,” the ambassador said, his voice bright with excitement. “The issues are fascinating, no?”
“Not all bad news, then,” Agenta said.
Lydanto’s smile this time was strained. He closed his book. “As for Gilgamar’s Ruling Council withholding part of its tribute … perhaps it would be better if the Levy were settled in full before your case is coming to court.”
Rethell stood up and began pacing the room. “You think it is that easy? My opponents on the Council will have heard by now about the Gadfly’s disappearance. Their opposition to paying the Levy will become stronger once they realize what I stand to lose.”
That was the way things went in Gilgamar: one man’s misfortune was always another man’s opportunity for gain. The nobles on the Council would stop at nothing to trick and claw their way to the top. So, when the rumor had surfaced about Agenta becoming a Seeker, the other Council members had been quick to jump on it. For all the kalischa knew, it had been one of them who had spread the story in the first place.
It was all nonsense, of course. The Seekers were fanatics. The drugs they peddled dulled the senses of the masses, but only by robbing them of their emotions, their memories. The Seekers reveled in that fact. It was their way of fighting back, they said, against the hardships inflicted by the ruling elite. They had asked Agenta to join them, no doubt hoping to use her family’s name to further their crusade. The kalischa, though, had no interest in joining any cause, even one as destructive as the Seekers’.
She swirled the water in her glass. “What I don’t understand is why Imerle is contesting this at all. She is coming to the end of her time as emira, right? So why does she care about our case? Soon the money won’t be hers to lose.”
Lydanto said, “Strictly speaking, the money is belonging to the Storm Lords, not Imerle, but your point is still valid.” He drained his glass and cast a longing look at the decanters. “There are whisperings the emira is plotting to hold on to power, but I am believing that is all they are: whisperings. Nevertheless, it is clear something is afoot.”
It was a moment before Agenta saw his meaning. “The backlog in the courts.”
“Precisely. Your real problem, Kalischa, is not so much the delaying tactics of Imerle but rather how many petitions have been filed at the court—more than twenty in the past month alone. Clearly whichever pirate is responsible for the hijackings is an individual most capable. And yet, a pirate commanding a fleet large enough to seize so many ships, and who is able to evade capture by the Storm Lords? I am—how do you say?—smelling the rat.”
“Does it have to be the emira behind this? Could it be another of the Storm Lords?”
“Most certainly. But there are other reasons for thinking Imerle is being up to no good. A rumor has reached me that she is taking out loans with certain merchants in Olaire.”
Rethell stopped pacing. “She is borrowing to settle the claims brought against her?”
“No—liability rests with the Storm Lords, not the emira. These loans are to Imerle personally.”
Agenta considered this. If the stories of the emira plotting to remain in power were correct, it was not difficult to imagine what she wanted money for … An idea came to her. “Perhaps there is a way we can use these loans to our advantage.”
Lydanto raised an inquiring eyebrow.
“Whatever their purpose, it is fair to assume Imerle wants to keep their existence a secret. If we can find a way to link the loans to our duskstones, maybe the emira will settle rather than have her financial dealings investigated in court.”
Rethell looked at Lydanto. “Can it be done?”
“Perhaps, Kalisch, if one of the merchants lending to Imerle has also been purchasing the stolen duskstones.” The ambassador finally succumbed to temptation and crossed to the table with the decanters. “I will need to be making inquiries at the Round.”
“Later,” Rethell said. “First, I have another task for you.”
Lydanto paused. “Task?”
“The emira said Olaire’s markets have been flooded with duskstones this past week. So where are they coming from?”
“You mean where are the attackers of your ship hiding them?” The ambassador refilled his glass with apilone. “The Deeps, I am thinking. Ever since the district was being flooded by the sea, it has become home to all manner of undesirables. But if your concern is to discover whether the duskstones in Olaire are from the Gadfly, you can easily be buying one in the Jewelry Quarter.”
“I’m more interested in who is selling them. The pirates can’t have flogged the whole shipment already, so let’s make it known we’re in the market for whatever they’ve got left. If we dangle a big enough hook, maybe someone will bite.”
Agenta set down her glass. After all this talk of courts and loans, things were suddenly looking a good deal more interesting. “Can you arrange a meeting with whoever is selling the stones?” she asked Lydanto. “Discreetly, of course.”
“I am sure I can be sorting something out.”
The kalischa turned to her father. “I’ll go.” She’d wanted to see the sights of Olaire, hadn’t she? The Deeps certainly counted in that respect. And if it came with a little danger attached, then all the better.
Rethell nodded.
Agenta covered her surprise. Just like that he said yes? She’d expected him to squirm and to deliberate and to find some excuse to send someone in her place—to try to protect her as he’d been unable to protect Zelin. Then again, why should he? She wasn’t her brother, after all.
“Take Warner and Balen with you,” was all he said.
CHAPTER 4
SENAR HAD been waiting for what seemed like an eternity for an audience with Mazana Creed. The first time he’d presented himself at her house he’d been told that she had come and gone, and wo
uld not be returning until dusk. Then, when he went back at the eighth bell, he was left waiting in a corridor with dark wooden wall panels so highly polished he could see his reflection in them. The last of the day’s light trickled through windows along the passage to his left. As the shadows deepened, his eyelids grew heavy. During his imprisonment he’d worked hard to maintain his fitness—at least so far as the confines of his cell would allow—but already the strains of the day were beginning to weigh on him.
From behind a door to his right came raised voices, muffled laughter, breaking glass. With each sound, a serving-girl sweeping the floor to his left cast a fearful glance at the door. She could not have seen Senar standing motionless in the gloom, for when he rubbed his eyes she gave a squeal and bolted along a side passage. The Guardian listened to the flap of her sandals die away, wishing he too could make tracks. On his way to Mazana’s house he’d seen the masts of the ships docked in the harbor to the west, but he had no coin to buy passage out, and what were his chances of stowing away on a vessel and staying hidden for the duration of the crossing? And while he hadn’t noticed any of Imerle’s lackeys following him, the watchers would surely be close. No, better to bide his time until the emira’s guard slipped. Best behavior, remember.
A cheer sounded in the next room, and a memory stirred in Senar of the time during the fifth Kalanese campaign when he had traveled with his master, Li Benir, to an enemy encampment near Kal Kartin to deliver Avallon’s offer of a ceasefire. The two Guardians had waited in an anteroom of the enemy commander’s tent, choking on dust and listening to the tent flaps crack in the wind. All the while, Li Benir had stood quietly with his hands clasped behind his back, a flicker of a smile on his face as he watched Senar pace back and forth. The Kalanese’s hatred of Erin Elal was such that any Guardian captured would be skinned alive and buried to the neck for the bone ants to feast on. By the end of the night, though, Li Benir had had the Kalanese toasting him with ganga fire as they sat cross-legged on heaped sandclaw pelts. In response to one of Li Benir’s jests, even the wizened soulcaster squatting across from Senar had cracked a toothless grin. But then Senar’s master had always been adept at using his Will to influence the thoughts of others. For all Senar’s strength, it was a skill he had never grasped.
What he wouldn’t have given to have Li Benir with him now. Or just to know his master was alive—
He started as the door beside him opened to let out a babble of noise. Mazana’s black-toothed dutia, Beauce, appeared. “You ready for this, lad?” he said.
Senar pushed himself away from the wall. Was he supposed to feel intimidated, then? It was good to know what was expected of him, if only so he could make a point of doing the opposite. “Lead on.”
Instead, the dutia stepped to one side and gestured for Senar to enter. As the Guardian moved past, Beauce slapped him on the back.
Senar found himself in a chamber of a similar size to the emira’s throne room. It smelled of musty furniture and smoke from the wall torches. The walls were crammed with portraits of brooding figures looking down with sullen eyes. The floor was dominated by a mosaic showing a sea dragon alongside a three-masted galley. The creature’s tail had flicked the ship several armspans into the air, and figures were tumbling from the deck into the waters below. To the left edge of the mosaic was a smashed bottle. A woman lay facedown amid pieces of glass, her blood mixing with whatever liquid the bottle had contained to run pink between the mosaic’s stones.
Mazana Creed reclined on a divan at the far end of the room. The light from the wall torches accentuated the strong lines of her face. There were spots of color on her cheeks, and in one hand she clutched a near-empty wineglass. She looked like she wanted to be here about as much as the Guardian did. A slit in her dress revealed her bare legs.
Beauce moved past Senar and settled on a divan to her left. Around him stood a cluster of soldiers in blue uniforms bearing on their breasts the insignia of a red lightning bolt over a storm cloud. On a divan to the Storm Lady’s right lounged the fat man, Greave, who had accompanied her to the throne room, while behind her stood the Everlord, Kiapa. One of Kiapa’s hands rested on the right shoulder of a girl who wore about her neck a collar with bells on it. The bells tinkled as the girl swayed from side to side, her dead eyes staring through Senar as he halted at the center of the mosaic.
He bowed to Mazana. “My Lady.”
Mazana took a sip of wine. “Guardian, what a pleasant surprise. What brings you to my humble abode?”
“The emira sent me.”
“To spy on me?”
There seemed little point in denying it. “Correct.”
Mazana’s eyes glinted with amusement. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”
Senar shrugged. “I can only play the cards I am dealt.”
“And if I should send you back to Imerle?”
“My Lady is too kind.”
He was rewarded with a half smile.
Greave was on his feet. “Hear that, lads?” he said to the room. “The fool here reckons our little hellcat is a Shroud-cursed lady.” He seated himself on Mazana’s divan, leering. Then he plunged his hand down the front of her dress.
Beauce growled and sat forward. Senar’s right hand shifted to the hilt of his sword.
“Remove your hand, Greave,” Mazana said softly, “or I will remove it for you.”
The fat man stared at her for a moment before pulling back his arm. He had withdrawn his hand into the sleeve of his shirt. “Remove me hand, she said!” he rumbled, showing his sleeve to a dozen rough-cut men and women on his side of the room. “I hear and obey!”
Raucous laughter greeted his words. Senar managed to contain his own mirth. The soldiers gathered about Beauce weren’t laughing either, he noticed. He relaxed his grip on his sword hilt, but the movement must have caught Greave’s eye, for the man bared his teeth and approached. Closer now, Senar could see he’d been wrong to dismiss him as fat, because there were cords of muscle in his neck, and he moved with the agility of a swordsman. He was a handspan taller than Senar and the same again as wide.
“Guardian, ain’t it?” Greave sneered, sizing him up. At Senar’s height, it didn’t take long. “I’ve heard about yer kind.”
“Not enough, it seems.”
“Yer reckon the emira can protect yer here, pretty boy?” He jabbed a finger into Senar’s chest. “If Imerle gave a shit for yer worthless hide, she wouldnta thrown yer to the lions.”
Senar could feel Mazana’s gaze upon him. His voice was flat. “I see no lions.”
The Storm Lady spoke. “You are talking to the once champion of Bethin’s blood pits. No one before or since has matched his thirty-one fights undefeated.”
“Indeed. The pits, you say.” Maybe Senar should have been trying harder not to wind the man up, but somehow he just couldn’t do it.
Mazana chuckled, then said to Greave, “It appears the Guardian isn’t impressed.”
“Makes two of us.”
Beauce pushed himself to his feet. “Fighting talk, gentlemen. Seems to me there’s only one way to sort this out: a duel to first blood, here and now.”
Senar’s eyes narrowed. A duel? Mazana was regarding him shrewdly, and it dawned on him that he might have blundered into a trap. For while the Storm Lady could easily have just sent him back to Imerle, sending back a corpse conveyed a stronger message. If it was a trap, though, Greave had apparently not been in on the plan, for he was frowning at Mazana. Judging by the smell of juripa spirits on his breath he’d been drinking heavily, and while some warriors preferred to fight drunk, none of those lived to contest thirty-one duels. He couldn’t, however, back down without losing face, for the men and women on his side of the room were shouting encouragement. As Mazana was no doubt counting on. Had the duel been orchestrated to put Greave in his place, then, not Senar?
The Guardian grimaced. He’d pledged his blade to the emira, yet already he was fighting Mazana’s battles for her. But then wh
at other option was there? If he declined the duel, the Storm Lady would surely dismiss him, and in spite of what he’d said earlier he had no wish to return to Imerle empty-handed. Another time he might have welcomed the chance to teach Greave some civility, but the fact he’d let himself be so easily manipulated left a sour taste in his mouth. Still, if he had to go through with his, he would at least pretend it was by his choice, not Mazana’s, and so he forced a smile and said, “Why not?”
Greave emptied the contents of his nostrils onto the floor. Clearly he’d learned not just his combat skills in the pits, but also his manners. He crossed to the divan he’d been lying on. On the ground beneath it was a fish-spine sword made of blue steel with toothlike barbs along the blade. The champion picked up the weapon, then smirked when he caught Senar looking at it. “Arena rules?”
“Are there such things?” the Guardian said, drawing his sword and raising it in a salute.
His opponent attacked.
Grunting as each strike landed, Greave forced Senar to retreat with a series of cuts and thrusts. There was weight behind his blows, but the juripa spirits must have slowed his reactions, for when Senar counterattacked with a stab to the abdomen, Greave only just parried in time. As their swords met, the champion turned his wrist, and Senar’s weapon snagged on the barbs of the other man’s blade. When the Guardian stepped back to disengage, Greave followed him, his left fist swinging for Senar’s face.
The Guardian swayed aside.
So far, so comfortable.
Senar circled to the right, the shouts of the champion’s followers loud in his ears. He would have to finish this quickly. Ordinarily he preferred to take time to assess his opponent’s technique, but the months of captivity had sapped his strength, and his sword arm was already aching. If Greave had known of his weakness he would probably have played a waiting game. Instead he pressed forward, aiming a slash to Senar’s chest which the Guardian blocked. The force of the impact knocked him back a step.
Glass crunched beneath his heel.