by Ken Scholes
The note had come by courier rather than bird, delivered by a young lieutenant that Lysias knew had kin with Esarov’s Secessionists. Another family divided by the civil war-something Lysias understood far too well.
It was, after all, family that had brought him to this place.
He watched the room around him, knowing full well that it watched him back. Or at least, someone did. Esarov was crafty and would not arrange a meeting if he could not control it. And following the instructions to the letter, Lysias had come alone. It completely violated every instinct he had as a general-riding out to a strange city for a clandestine meeting with the leader of a revolt that threatened the fabric of a society he had pledged his life to protecting. Meeting in a dark, dockside tavern out of uniform and surrounded, no doubt, by those sympathetic to a cause he was completely convinced would ruin them all.
Yes, as a general, trained in the Named Lands premier Academy, this was all completely against the grain of instinct.
But, Lysias knew, a father’s instincts can trump career in those few, brief seconds between heartbeats. He’d had to come.
He’d taken great care to cover his tracks, confident that Ignatio’s men were out there even now, trying to find their assigned quarry. Erlund’s spymaster trusted no one-it was his basic operating principle-and the marriage of Lysias’s daughter to one of Esarov’s now-deceased cohorts made the general particularly of interest.
I am a compromised liability, he thought with a forced smile.
Still, risks aside, he was here now, waiting for Esarov.
I wish to propose a cessation of hostilities, the coded note had read, but require an intermediary with Erlund. The note had contained instructions for further communication and had closed cryptically: I have information regarding the location and well-being of your daughter.
As much as he wished that his duty to the state now drove him, it was that closing sentence that brought him to this place.
Children, he thought, are the hunter’s snare for a man’s heart.
When the woman approached him with her long legs and confident smile, he raised his hand to dismiss her. She was young-younger than his daughter-and though the occasional mattress tussle was not beyond his interest, Lysias had never felt completely comfortable if a cash transaction was involved. There were plenty of lonely wives or willing servants when the mood struck, though he found that the older he got, the less the mood seemed to strike. Still, this one was attractive enough and didn’t have the used, hollow eyes of someone who’d worked in the business for any amount of time.
But even as he raised his hand, he saw her lips purse and saw her head give the slightest shake. He waited until she approached. “Looking for company?” she asked in a low voice.
He glanced around the room. A few sailors took notice, but he couldn’t be certain it wasn’t the tight dress and the curves it accentuated that drew their stares. He nodded. “I am indeed.”
She sat, and as she did, her fingers moved. We make small talk a bit; then you ask the barmaid for a room key.
He studied her eyes and saw that they were hard. Agreed, he signed in return.
They talked in low tones about the weather and the war until Lysias heard readiness in her replies. Then, he raised a finger and nodded when he caught the barmaid’s eye. She studied the two of them with a knowing smile and then waddled over with an iron key. She looked to Lysias and waited until he produced a heavy coin from his pocket. Burying the payment into her apron pocket, she passed the key to him. “An hour,” she said, looking to the woman. “And be mindful of your noise.”
The girl wrinkled her nose but smiled. “I don’t think this one will give us that problem.”
Laughing, the barmaid returned to her work, and the girl stood, stretching out her hand to Lysias.
He was surprised at how awkward he felt suddenly, and he wondered if it was because it had been a while since a beautiful woman had offered him her hand. His last woman, he realized, had been a drunken hurry during a lull in the last war. And that had been more to give his officers a sense of his humanity so that he could exact deeper loyalty than for his own personal satisfaction. He took her hand, and it was soft and small within his.
But her grip was firm.
Lysias stood and let her lead him up the stairs.
She let them into the room and locked the door behind.
A single candle guttered on a small table beside the room’s narrow cot. A robed man sat on a wooden chair, opposite the bed. “General Lysias?” the man asked, looking up.
The hair was longer, but Lysias recognized the man, though he’d aged a bit since his days upon the stage. “Esarov,” he said. “You take a great risk coming here personally.”
Esarov shrugged. “We own this quarter. We’ve twenty of our best in this fine establishment to mitigate potential risk.” He nodded to the girl. “Including Sasha.”
They use women for the debasing work of war under the guise of equality. Lysias felt anger catch like kindling in his stomach. He wrestled it down and forced calm into his voice. “So why have you brought me here?” And what do you know about my Lynnae? he didn’t ask.
“I wish to offer a cessation to hostilities and end this civil war.”
Lysias sat upon the bed, not waiting for Esarov to invite him. “So you said.” He placed his elbows upon the stained tabletop and leaned forward. “But before I can agree to be your intermediary, I’ll need to know your terms.”
“They are simple, really. Sethbert’s murderer, Petronus, has surrendered himself to the Secessionists’ Union. I know that Ignatio is holding a high-ranking member of the Androfrancine Order in one of the Overseer’s many basements.” Esarov leaned forward, his blue eyes shining through the lenses of his spectacles. “Petronus is prepared to turn himself over to Erlund for trial in exchange for that man’s freedom, and”-here, he smiled-“I am prepared to negotiate an end to the war on the sole condition that those city-states currently with seated governors, elected by the people, be allowed to retain those governors in keeping with the intent of the original Settlers Congress.”
Lysias scowled. The city-states had united beneath an Overseer during the First Gypsy War, over seventeen hundred years ago. It was a lesson learned the hard way, paid in blood: To have a strong and unified army, one must have a strong and unified central government. “And you believe Erlund will take this offer?”
He might. He really might, Lysias thought.
Esarov smiled, his eyebrows arching over the wire frames. “I’m convinced he will.” He sat back and spread out his arms. “It is a matter of law. Sethbert was near kin to him-and his predecessor-holding the highest position of honor on the Delta. His actions, no matter how heinous, stemmed from a sense of duty to his people and to the Named Lands. Erlund is obligated to seek justice.”
“And you gain legitimacy for three. four cities when you could have them all?”
“I don’t need them all; I never have.” Esarov’s smile broadened. “Democracy is both a mighty tool and a stealthy weapon, General. I believe it will win the war in a slower, surer way and without further bloodshed.”
Lysias sat back. He glanced momentarily to the girl, Sasha. She stood near the door, her ear cocked toward it. “And Petronus understands the risk?”
Esarov shrugged. “I believe he does. But I also believe he is motivated by guilt. He knows now that Sethbert was merely someone else’s Queen’s War move-a clever and tragic manipulation.”
Tam, Lysias thought. He remembered his last meeting with the man, there on the Pylos border, when he’d taken the note carefully forged in Pope Resolute’s hand along with the ancient weapon that he and the Pope’s Gray Guard captain had used to bring down Sethbert through Resolute’s so-called suicide. If Sethbert had surrendered when Lysias and his men had arrested him, perhaps the Overseer would have seen a different outcome.
But that was not what House Li Tam intended, if his suspicions were correct.
“Ve
ry well,” Lysias finally said. “Is there more?”
Esarov nodded. “There is. I want assurances of Petronus’s well-being during the trial. He is to be afforded the courtesy of a dignitary from the moment of his arrest until the completion of his trial and any resulting sentence.”
Lysias sat, staring at Esarov. He tried to remember what play he’d last seen the man in before he’d retired from the theater and given himself to questionable politics. He thought perhaps it was A Weeping Czar Beholds the Fallen Moon, that ancient tale of accidental, tragic love. He’d played Frederico, the Last Weeping Czar, and Lysias recalled that his wife had been quite taken with the young Androfrancine-turned-actor.
“Very well,” he said. “I will relay your message. How do I contact you with Erlund’s response?”
Esarov smiled again. “My men will contact you. You will not see me again until the trial.”
Lysias nodded, wanting to ask one last question-really, his first and foremost question-but not sure how. Until this moment, his purpose here was clearly a matter of state, but this inquiry would make it personal and years of habit drove him to keep the two very separate in his life.
But Esarov must have seen the conflict in his face. “She is fine, Lysias,” he said. “Your daughter is in the Ninefold Forest in Rudolfo’s refugee camp. We had word of her arrival not long before the assassinations.”
Lysias didn’t want to ask his next question, either, but for different reasons. As much as he held Lynnae’s dead husband in disdain, he’d not been able to carry those feelings over to the child of that union no matter how hard he tried. But it was a child he’d still refused to meet when Lynnae last stood upon the steps to his home and his servants refused her entry. He’d not even asked after the boy’s name, and now, he winced at the memory of that day. “And my grandson?”
A cloud fell over Esarov’s face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Her child took fever and died.”
Lysias blinked, ambushed by sudden and unexpected emotion. He found himself suddenly disoriented by the wash of grief and regret and rage. What have I done, Lynnae? He sat for a moment, ordering the tears that now threatened him to stand down. His voice caught when he spoke. “He’s dead?”
Esarov nodded. “I seem to recall you were not pleased with her. situation. You should be delighted, I would think, at this outcome.”
He let the air go out of him in a rush and felt his shoulders sagging. He stared at Esarov. “Is that all?”
“Yes,” Esarov said as he stood. “I have no other news. But she is safe, and the Gypsy King is treating the Entrolusian refugees well-giving them food and shelter and work.”
Lysias nodded and watched Esarov walk to the window. He slipped out onto a narrow balcony and climbed over the rail. “My men will find you in three days’ time for Erlund’s response,” he said as he vanished into the fading day.
Lysias closed his eyes and felt a tearless sob shudder across his shoulders.
“We should go soon,” Sasha said, messing her hair and clothing.
When he looked up into her striking green eyes, Lysias wasn’t sure what he hoped to find. Grace. Compassion. Forgiveness, perhaps.
But all that met him there was silent, cold accusation.
Vlad Li Tam
Vlad Li Tam awoke to the sound of a chime and pushed aside the light satin sheets of his prison bed. He forced himself to sit up slowly, once again inventorying his new surroundings.
There had been no further conversation and certainly no explanation when they’d ushered him into the suite of windowless rooms. He’d been left clean linen robes and sandals and had found the bathing chamber, complete with heated water and a marble tub. And once he’d cleaned himself, servants had arrived bearing platter upon platter of steaming seafood, sticky rice, and fresh fruits. He’d taken that first meal sparingly before crawling onto the feathered mattress and falling into a deep sleep.
There had been several meals since, and he assumed that meant days had passed.
He’d spent at least one of them hammering at the door, bellowing his questions and demands.
Really, the same question expressed in different ways.
What do you intend with my family?
It rode him even as he studied the patterns of this new Whymer Maze. They’d moved him from degradation to luxury and left him alone without any expectation that he was aware of. At some point, he knew, it would turn again.
Until then, he ate, bathed and slept in nearly identical cycles.
But now, he realized, was something different.
The chimes. He stood and pulled yesterday’s robe over his naked skin. He walked out into the sitting area and saw the girl waiting for him there.
She inclined her head. “Good evening, Vlad.”
Evening, he thought, careful not to return her gesture of respect. “What do I call you?”
“Ria,” she said.
Vlad Li Tam met her eyes. “Where are my children, Ria, and what are your intentions toward them?”
She smiled. “They are here,” she said, “and I have none.” She stepped back, toward the door. “Would you like to see them?”
Vlad Li Tam swallowed, his eyes narrowing. This is the turn, he thought. “Yes,” he said. “I would.”
Ria turned, her dark robes flowing around her like ink poured in water. “Let’s go see them, Vlad.”
There were no ropes. No guards. No blindfolds. As they walked, he forced Francine calm to enwrap him and turned his mind to the work of learning. He measured each step from the door. He noticed the stone hallway, the texture of the floor, the quality of the air and the way that their footfalls echoed ahead and behind them. His eyes measured the span between doors-doors made of the same dark wood that the mysterious vessel was made from, reinforced with bands of iron and a series of keyed bolts.
His eyes and feet and ears and nose drank in everything, sorted it by degree of usefulness and stored it away. When he needed it, he would bring it back. And at some point, he would know enough to-
“Your father taught you well, Vlad,” she said over her shoulder. “But you will not be well served by that knowledge here.”
He stared at the back of her head. “Why is that?”
She laughed. “Because he designed this place with you in mind.”
Vlad forced himself not to react. He did not break stride, and though she wasn’t looking, he kept his face masked. Mal Li Tam’s words had stayed with him. Your own father betrays you. Vlad remembered the slender black volume, so like the others he’d burned the day Rudolfo had come demanding answers. The smoke of House Li Tam’s secrets had hung heavy over their jungle estate, thick and choking. History they had built by bending and breaking and building men and women, slowly and in secret.
And more secrets within the secrets.
Vlad Li Tam said nothing, placing one sandaled foot in front of the other. Ahead, he saw that the corridor ended with a wide, rounded flight of stairs that rose up, widening as they went, until they ended at a wide set of double doors in shadows cast by intricately carved marble pillars. He hesitated and she stopped.
“Your children are waiting, Vlad.”
And even as her words registered with him, he suddenly knew that he did not want to go willingly where she led him. He found himself wondering if her threat earlier applied to this moment as well. I can have you carried, she had said. He suspected that it was so.
Vlad Li Tam forced himself forward. She climbed the stairs and he followed. Once they reached the top, she pulled open the door.
Robed men-four of them-slipped out and around him. Vlad felt hands upon his shoulders, and he tried not to tense himself. “Exactly what are you-”
Vlad closed his mouth. He’d seen drawings, certainly, and he’d heard the Gypsy King’s Tormentor’s Row described enough to know what awaited criminals and enemies within its screaming walls. But the magnificence of the room was boggling. He stood now on a wide, circular balcony, overlooking the cutting room be
low with its tables and pipes. Recliners and armchairs on the observation deck had been replaced with simple wooden stools and an upright rack beset with straps and manacles. But other than those spartan furnishings, the space was lavishly decorated. Art, the likes of which Vlad had never seen, lined the circular walls-various demonstrations of the cutters at work. Heavy purple velvet curtains offset high stained-glass windows. The railings and blood-catchers were gold, and near the tables below, silver blades of various shapes lay waiting for skilled hands to wield them.
The robed men dragged Vlad to the rack, and finally he resisted. He lashed out with a foot and heard the solid crack of an ankle. The man went down a thud, and Ria’s voice shouted out, echoing across the domed chamber.
“Enough,” she said. “You forget about the well-being of your children.”
Vlad Li Tam snarled, then hung his head. They’re dead anyway. No, he told himself. Not yet. And maybe there was a way still to save them. He let the three remaining men escort him to the rack and strap him in.
Ria smiled down at him and whistled low. A table of knives appeared. “I told you I would be your Kin-healer and Bloodletter. Do you remember this?”
He nodded but said nothing.
“I am going to cut you, Vlad. Slowly and over a long period of time. And in doing so, I will heal your kinship to House Y’Zir.”
Vlad Li Tam blinked. “House Y’Zir?” Suddenly, his mind was focused, a knife edge ready to cut. An Y’Zirite resurgence? House Y’Zir had fallen millennia ago, and yet from time to time, small cults had sprung up-factions who perceived the Wizard Kings as divine, mourned their death and longed for their return. House Li Tam had helped the Order quell its share of them in the earlier days, before the shipbuilders had turned to banking. “There is no House Y’Zir,” he said. “It fell when Xhum Y’Zir broke the back of the world.”
“ ‘And that which is fallen shall be built up and that which is dead shall live again,’ ” she said with a smile. “The Age of the Crimson Empress dawns upon us.” She reached out a hand and stroked Vlad’s stubbly cheek. Her hand was warm and her breath was sweet. “Dear Vlad,” she said, “do you understand that your blood will save us all?”
