“Will that day come?” Tynewell asked.
Saldur raised his brows. Such a question was tantamount to heresy, but then so was the painting behind him, which was commissioned by the founder of the Church of Nyphron. This is why we have laws against such things. Exposure to temptation leads to mistakes.
“I certainly hope so,” Saldur said. “Otherwise I murdered an entire royal family and a dozen bureaucrats for nothing.”
Tynewell sat up. “The sinking of the Eternal Empire was your work?”
Saldur nodded.
“That’s not . . . wait . . . how could you possibly arrange for a storm?”
“There wasn’t one. That was just the story we circulated, and because we told everyone about a terrible storm several days before the Eternal Empire was due to arrive, no one thought it strange that she might have been lost in it.”
“So, how did the ship sink?”
“The Eternal Empire was an excellent vessel. Brand-new, top-of-the-line three-masted, four-decked frigate, even had a pretty figurehead of a woman with golden wings. Reinhold spared no expense. I couldn’t waste something the future empire might one day need.”
“It didn’t sink?”
“Right now, that ship is in Aquesta harbor being stripped of all identifying marks. We added pretty green pennants and renamed it the Emerald Storm. Poetic, don’t you think?”
“So, what happened to the royal family?”
“They were allowed to go free.” Saldur grinned as his statement produced the expected reaction of shock. Tynewell was so very smug with his grand home, but his majestic life was as precarious as anyone’s. Until the day the new empire was established, they were all little more than shadows hiding from the light.
“But . . . but . . .”
Saldur stopped Tynewell with the rise of another greasy hand. “They were out at sea, several miles away from land at the time . . . with their wrists tied.”
“Oh.”
Saldur found the bread and tore off a chunk. “So, who will you pick?”
“How’s that?” Tynewell asked, his eyes shifting, no doubt still imagining the scene of the royal family, their cousins, and all the royal administrators thrown overboard.
“Rumors say you’re going to hold a contest, is that so? I honestly think that isn’t a good idea.”
Isn’t a good idea was the understatement of the century. Of course, matters could be framed in such a way that the desired candidate would prove victorious, but what if something unexpected happened? Then you would have the wrong person ruling, and another accident would have to be arranged. Too many accidents would arouse suspicion. No, contests were too fraught with danger due to random chance.
Tynewell returned a wry smile.
Saldur wasn’t amused. “This isn’t a game. We don’t do this for our own entertainment.”
“You handle your succession your way, leave me to mine.”
This less-than-artful dig at Saldur’s failure in Melengar felt like a slap, one Saldur didn’t feel he deserved. He had aided Tynewell with the removal of Alburn’s monarchist king—always the hardest part—and his fellow bishop should be more appreciative of Saldur’s help. “Personally, I’d choose Armand Calder.”
“Calder? Are you serious? In Alburn’s family tree, he’s one of the smaller roots. Not very accomplished, and not well connected. Also, I hear he neglected to bring his family, as I so particularly instructed. I don’t care if his sons are sick with fevers. That was no reason to ignore my edict and leave behind his wife and daughter, not to mention his sons.”
Tynewell shook his head, but Saldur pressed on. “Armand is a lesser-known earl, but he also has a smaller ego, a trait that could prove most useful when . . .”
Saldur stopped talking; Tynewell wasn’t listening. He was looking at the painting of Venlin with a distant focus in his eyes.
“Are you going to eat any of this?” Saldur asked, waving a hand over the feast. “I feel like a glutton.”
“Huh? Oh, I’m not hungry.”
“Really? If I had food like this back in Medford, I’d be four hundred pounds by now.” His host still wasn’t paying attention. “Is there something wrong?”
“Hmm?” Tynewell looked up as if from a dream. “Oh, no. Nothing . . .”
“You aren’t considering Leopold Hargrave, are you? I mean, he’s pliable enough, but the man is a terrible administrator. Putting him in charge would no doubt create a fiscal disaster.”
Tynewell’s attention had finally returned to the conversation, and he nodded in agreement. “Leo is old-fashioned. His family descends from the Imperial Council. Rochelle is home to three of the most prominent families to survive the fall: the Hargraves, Calders, and Killians. Floret Killian even claims to be a direct descendant of Persephone’s brother. These families, along with Lord Darius Seret, built this province that later became a kingdom. Leo believes in the old codes, the virtues once practiced by the Teshlor Knights of the old imperium. We don’t need his kind of trouble.”
“Good point. Well, whoever you pick, best to keep in mind that they actually have to rule a kingdom, you know?”
Tynewell focused on Saldur, and he smiled. “Yes, yes, of course. That’s it exactly. This . . . this is such a big decision. I need to consider my choices carefully.”
“Yes, but also expeditiously. The feast is what, three days from now?”
He continued to nod. “You’re absolutely right. I just . . .”
“What?”
Tynewell bit his lower lip and hung onto it for a moment. “I want the patriarch to approve of my choice.”
Saldur raised his hands. “He’s given you the power, so I don’t see how he can complain with the results.”
Tynewell smiled. “Yes, that’s true. That’s very true. Maybe I will have something to eat after all.” He plucked a slice of bread and proceeded to cover it with meat, then paused as his eyes went back to the painting. “Don’t you think it’s odd?”
“What?”
“That Venlin is standing.”
Saldur turned and looked back at the fresco.
“Look at him. The patriarch is in the presence of Novron himself, but he doesn’t kneel, doesn’t prostrate himself in the slightest. If anything, he’s standing more upright. It’s as if he felt he was an equal to Our Lord. Where does confidence like that come from?”
“I would think ruling what was left of the empire would have something to do with it.”
“I think you might be right.”
Chapter Eleven
Little Gur Em
The chimes of Grom Galimus rang out the midday bells as Royce led Hadrian past the harbor where dozens of sail-stripped masts looked like a forest in winter. They had spent the morning walking around the city. Royce had moved with the speed of intent, which kept Hadrian from asking questions. Royce never cared for them, and Hadrian assumed everything would reveal itself in time. Hours passed, marked neatly by the cathedral bells, as they cut through crowds crossing the bridges to the west side of the city, then circled back. Returning to the plaza, which by then had filled up with its usual crowd, Royce led the way south along the river, taking what appeared to be a nonsensical route that zigzagged streets to the harbor.
“Where are we going?” Hadrian finally asked as they passed between a pair of giant elephant tusks that made a gateway into a neighborhood of narrow streets.
“Hmm?” Royce murmured, glancing back as if he hadn’t heard exactly what Hadrian had said, which was a sure sign something was up.
The blocks past the elephant tusks were so tightly packed that clotheslines stretched between buildings created a complex crisscrossed webbing. Those not covered with drying clothes were decorated with colorful flags or flower-laden garlands. The passage was jammed with people who edged around the obstacles of vendor stands where merchants purposely placed their carts in the way of traffic and shouted at customers in more than one language. From some unseen place, rhythmic drums pounded an addi
ctive beat.
“Are you heading somewhere or just wandering?” Hadrian shouted as he dodged around a dark-skinned woman carrying two caged chickens that fluttered and squawked. “Are you looking for the driver in the crowds?”
“Oh, no.” Royce shook his head. “I know where the driver is, but there’s no sense in going after him until tonight.”
Royce made an elegant spin, dodging around a wagon of firewood, his cloak sweeping behind. Trying to keep up, Hadrian nearly plowed into a mother holding the hands of two children, but halted at the brink. All three looked up at him and smiled. He smiled back, concluding a silent but clear conversation that included understanding, forgiveness, and a bit of humor. Slipping past, and around the wagon, Hadrian struggled to catch Royce as he darted and wove from one hole to the next—holes that all too often fit only Royce.
Is he trying to lose me?
They broke out of the narrows and merged into a broader marketplace, where Hadrian was able to use his long legs to cut the distance. “So . . . what? We’re sightseeing?”
Royce glanced back to show the irritation on his face.
“What, then?”
“I’m looking for another place to lodge. Another boardinghouse. Figure there has to be something else. We didn’t look everywhere. Maybe in the less affluent areas we’ll find something. I’d rather share a room with rats than have another breakfast with that woman.”
“Are you serious? The city is booked, and the room we have is fantastic.”
“Our room is being let out by a crazy person.”
“She’s nice.”
“She’s demented and will likely knife us in our sleep.”
“Evelyn Hemsworth? You can’t be serious.”
“No, I’m not. I’m obviously speaking metaphorically. It is far more likely that she’ll poison us with tomorrow’s breakfast. That’s how her type usually works.”
“Her type? What do you mean, her type?”
Royce didn’t answer. He was moving again and once more eluded Hadrian. This time he cut around a group who gawked at a veil-draped young woman dancing with zills on her fingers. At her slippered feet lay a cloth hat littered with a few copper coins. If Hadrian weren’t concerned about losing Royce in the crowd, he would have lingered a bit.
They were in the heart of the neighborhood dominated by colorful pottery, flatbreads, bright clothes, baskets, wood carvings, and exotic spices. Several signs denoted the location as Little Gur Em, a reference to the jungles of Calis, which were both dense and dangerous. To Hadrian, who had spent time in the real Gur Em, it seemed like a slur, but the residents appeared to have embraced the name, adding it to their carts. LITTLE GUR EM OILS AND SERUMS, one plaque read, GUR EM JUNGLE TEAS, another.
All around, dark-skinned Calians spoke in accents or in the harsh jungle tongue of the Tenkin language. Old wrinkled men in loose wraps clustered at open-air tables, playing games of Heker, drinking coffee, and smoking from tall brass water pipes. Hadrian recalled the salt and pepper shakers on Evelyn’s table and realized that immigrants spilling into Alburn had brought all the flavors of home. The music, the smells, the voices and faces all threatened to unlock mental doors Hadrian preferred to keep closed. Moving down that street, he wasn’t pushing through a crowd so much as through a thicket of thorny memories. This was an era of his life he’d walked away from. One he had vowed never to return to. He struggled to ignore the street and focused on Royce.
“Evelyn isn’t crazy,” Hadrian said. “She’s normal. That’s your problem with her. You don’t know how to deal with normal.”
“She’s not normal.”
“Sure she is. The woman is upstanding and decent. You can’t even recognize it anymore because you’re so . . . so higgery-jiggery.”
Royce stopped and looked back at him. The thief wanted to scowl, to show his anger and disdain, but he was having trouble. Royce looked like a person trying not to sneeze, but that wasn’t what he was holding back. He fought down an unwanted smile. “Don’t be absurd,” he snapped. “A person can’t be higgery-jiggery. Higgery-jiggery is something a person does.”
Hadrian chuckled. “Oh, so you speak fluent Evelyn Hemsworth now?”
They had ended up in front of a pushcart painted with a landscape of a jungle waterfall. The picture offered an impressive display of carvings in wood and polished stone. The man behind it, a short, thin fellow with a white beard and big teeth, eagerly jumped to his feet. “You need a gift to settle a dispute with your girlfriend, yes?” he said to Royce.
The thief looked at the Calian cart worker, aghast.
“Ah yes, it is clear from the look of distress on your face. You have had a squabble and now you must make up with a present!” the merchant declared. “That is the only way to properly resolve these setbacks with a sweetheart.”
“She’s not my sweetheart.”
“My apologies, good sir!” The merchant smiled and clasped his hands before him, revealing long thin fingers. “And I can see the problem clearly now. Oh, yes! It is a bickering feud with your wife that brings you to my cart. Ah, yes, a far more serious state of affairs than a mere misunderstanding with a trollop. Never a good thing when the wife suspects you of higgery-jiggery!” He grinned. “But better than jiggery-pokery, yes?” He followed this with a wink that left Royce staring at the man as if he had three heads.
“Now, what you need is a peace offering.” He rubbed his hands together then flexed his fingers as if he were about to perform a magic trick. “A fine bit of artistry to make her forget your transgressions.” The man snatched up a figurine of a man and woman in a passionate embrace. He held up the finely carved sculpture. “This—this will make her remember why she married you, yes? Hand-carved in Dagastan by a ninety-year-old blind shepherd who was rumored to have once been a pirate. And because you are in such a dire state, I will sell it to you for only a single pair of silver tenents. The answers to your prayers, yes?”
“No!” Royce snapped.
“Are you sure, Royce?” Hadrian grinned. “The little missus might forgive you when she sees that.”
Royce didn’t respond except to draw up his hood as he started to walk away; then he stopped. His sight fixed on one of the other figurines in the back. “That one,” he said, pointing at a hefty sculpture of a man standing triumphantly with one foot on a defeated foe.
“So your wife is a devotee of the arena games?” the happy cart man asked, lifting the figurine up with some difficulty. This was no lightweight bauble. “And not a better choice will you find should you look the world over.”
“He’s not looking for a gift for his wife.” Hadrian pushed abruptly forward. “He isn’t even married. We aren’t looking to buy anything. C’mon, Royce. We should probably find something to eat. Maybe we can—”
Hadrian stepped away, but Royce didn’t follow.
“What’s the story with this one?” Royce asked. “Why does the man have three swords?”
“Ah!” The merchant grinned at them both, and Hadrian noticed how all his teeth were yellow and crooked. “This carving is a beautiful work of art created to commemorate the greatest warrior in the world: Galenti, the Tiger of Mandalin, the Hero of Calis, the Courtier of the Queen, and the Bane of the Ba Ran Ghazel.”
“I’m hungry. Aren’t you hungry?” Hadrian clapped his palm to his stomach. “I think there’s a place that sells meat on a stick over there. Smells great. Ever have meat on a stick?”
“Greatest warrior in the world, eh?” Royce asked. “That’s hard to believe.”
“Only to those who have never seen him fight, I would imagine. He was already well-known for his battles against the Ghazel when he arrived in Mandalin. But it was his victories in the arena that brought about his conquest of the queen.”
“Is that so?” Royce took down his hood and smiled at Hadrian. “And who is this queen?”
The man turned and plucked another figurine from his inventory—this one of a beautiful, sultry woman with slanted eyes p
ainted in decorative outlines. She had a round, doll-like face with a small pouting mouth accentuated by brilliant red lips. She wore a hat with pheasant feathers and a silken dress that appeared no more than paint on the figure. “Rea Rhys Ramsey, the illegitimate daughter of the king of Calis. Her half brother, Lemuel Ramsey, ordered her death, but Rea Rhys escaped and retreated to the one place she knew her brother would never look—the east. She followed the Estee River into the ancient Erbon region in the center of the country. There, she rediscovered the ruins of Urlineus. She claimed the ancient imperial city as her own and renamed it Mandalin. Her restoration of the old arena and resumption of the games made her quite popular. Now she rules Eastern Calis, while her brother rules the west from Rolandue.”
“Oh, so she’s still alive?”
“Very much so. Rea Rhys is notorious. Living on the fringe of civilization, she manipulates Tenkin warlords by day and battles the Ba Ran Ghazel at night. She has the beguiling beauty of a starry constellation and is as seductive and dangerous as a viper. For nearly two years, Galenti was her paramour and she his patron. The two swam in lakes of liquor, beds of tulan leaves, and pools of blood until his last fight.” He pointed at the other statue. “They call Galenti the Tiger of Mandalin because he battled against a great striped cat.”
“Last fight? That statue shows him victorious. Did the beast eventually kill him?”
The merchant laughed. “No, no, Galenti could never be defeated. Like all good legends, he simply disappeared.” The man made a flamboyant show of throwing his hands up, as if releasing a dove to the heavens. Then he halted as he looked at Hadrian. The vendor’s eyes narrowed as they shifted focus from one sword to the next.
Royce turned to Hadrian. “What do you think? Maybe my missus would like this one. Should I get it?”
Hadrian frowned and walked away. “I’m getting something to eat.”
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