by karlov, matt
Secret even from the rest of the Guild? The revelation was unexpected, but somehow Eilwen was only mildly surprised. A few weeks ago, I’d probably have been shocked. “Which masters?”
“Master Caralange,” Pel said. “And Master Havilah.”
Havilah. Of course. Disquiet whispered through her breast, but she pushed it away. It’s not him. It can’t be.
Which left Caralange, and Laris.
“I suppose if I asked Laris who Kieffe was really working for, she’d be happy to tell me?” Eilwen said, not sure if she was being sarcastic or not. The masters’ meeting would have been the perfect opportunity for Laris to dump Kieffe on someone else. But she’d told everyone the man was just a trader, which suggested it was probably true.
So why wasn’t Pel saying the same thing?
Her suspicions rising, Eilwen turned. “Why are you telling me this, Pel?”
Pel looked up, and their gazes locked. His fleshy face was drawn. He’s worried. Kieffe’s death has him rattled, and he’s decided… to trust me? Oh, gods. She nodded once, swallowing hard, and he looked away.
“What else can you tell me?” she said softly.
He took a long, slow breath. “There’s a shop. An importer from Tan Tahis.” He paused. “Qulah.”
“I know it,” Eilwen said. Qulah’s was on the Fanon road, not far from the new estates in the south part of the city. She’d visited it regularly in her early days with the Guild, but she’d barely been back in the years since her promotion to trade factor.
“I was there last week. Kieffe came in. When he saw me, he left.”
Eilwen waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. All right. “One other thing,” she said. “I need access to the trade reports and transaction logs. I know Kieffe’s dealings probably aren’t in there, but there’ll be other things, details I can use to track down what he was doing…”
But Pel was already turning away. “Only Laris can give you that,” he said with exaggerated patience.
“I know, I just thought…” She trailed off. Thought what? That Pel could go behind Laris’s back to get me the entire trading record for the past year, just so I can trawl through it and figure out what I’m even looking for? She shook her head, feeling foolish. “Never mind.”
Pel frowned at the water before him. With a slow, deliberate hand, he lifted his fishing rod and began to swirl it back and forth above the river.
Qulah’s. It was more than she’d had an hour ago. And it was something she could pursue without feeling like the whole Guild was looking over her shoulder. Maybe I can get some solid information before I start parading my ignorance before Laris and Caralange.
“Pel,” she murmured. “Thank you.”
She left before he could reply. Not that he would have. It was Pel, after all.
•
The way to Qulah’s took Eilwen down the eastern thoroughfare, past the building she always avoided. The Oculus building. Without the egg, she had no way of distinguishing Oculus from innocent, or untrained token-bearer from sorcerer, and as she approached her usual detour she slowed, contemplating just walking on by. But the thought was foolishness, of course. She’d often come this way before, with and without the egg. The risk was not so much that she might kill someone there and then in the street, though there had been dark moments when that had seemed possible. No, the true danger was subtler, more incremental: a reminder of debts unpaid, and a reawakening of her hunger for justice. A first step down the treacherous, well-worn path that led only to more death.
She grit her teeth and took the detour.
Qulah’s Emporium was a low, single-storey affair with a flat roof, sandwiched between a weathered brick warehouse and a run-down, multi-level tenement. With its lead glass windows, elegantly carved cornices, and wide, deep-blue enamelled door, Qulah’s stood out like a beacon of refinement among its ramshackle neighbours. Even the marker stone bearing the site’s city-ordained lot number was polished to a finish smooth enough for Eilwen to see the silhouette of her own reflection. Behind it, a neatly-trimmed shrub grew from a shallow box, its leaves the same dark green as the plants on either side of the door.
Very nice, Eilwen thought as she pushed open the door and stepped inside. Qulah, you’ve done well.
Inside, the shop was no less impressive. Rich, red carpets lined the floor, thin but beautifully patterned. Eilwen ducked around a large floor lamp, glancing idly at the ivory jewellery, carved blackwood flutes, and other Tahisi exotica arranged tastefully on the low shelves. A faint, vaguely spicy scent tickled her nostrils and she smiled. Oh, I remember this. She closed her eyes and breathed deep.
“Can I help you?”
Lungs full, Eilwen opened her eyes and looked around. A young Tahisi man no taller than herself stood at her side, a solicitous smile on his face. She let out her breath with a rush and gave the youth a slight frown. “I’d like to speak to Qulah, thank you.”
“Of course,” said the youth, his smile unwavering. He gestured in the direction of a side counter. “My uncle will be right with you.”
Uncle, is it? Eilwen glanced about the shop. A second Tahisi youth spoke in low tones with a moneyed, thin-haired man in the next aisle, while a third surveyed the store from a vantage point by the far wall. The last time Eilwen was here, Qulah’s only assistant had been his curt, unsmiling brother. So the kids are finally earning their keep. I wonder if Qulah’s brought them all the way in?
The soft click of a side door pulled her from her thoughts, and she looked up to see Qulah crossing the floor toward her. The man’s hair was a little greyer than she recalled, and his jowls a little heavier, but his unhurried movements and air of calm attentiveness were just as she remembered them. His shirt was the colour of ink and hung to his knees; but Eilwen could tell from its drape that the fabric was pure cotton, not the half-linen weave she would have expected of an ordinary shopkeeper. Just a humble merchant. Oh, yes.
Qulah halted before her, his head inclined in greeting. “I know you, do I not?” Though his skin was half a shade lighter than Havilah’s, his accent was almost identical. He studied her face, then broke into a smile. “Eilwen Nasareen. Of the Woodtraders, yes?”
“Qulah. It’s been too long.”
“So it has. Yet here you are.” Qulah spread his hands in a gesture encompassing both forgiveness and welcome. “I trust your visit is not simply a result of taking a wrong turn on the way to your favourite chocol house.”
The corners of Eilwen’s lips tugged upward. “You still haven’t added chocol to your selection of wares? I’m disappointed, Qulah.”
Qulah waved a dismissive hand. “There are a hundred and one stores in this city where chocol may be obtained. I have no interest in becoming the hundred and second.” He indicated an array of jars on a nearby shelf. “I can, however, offer a fine selection of okra seed. A far superior drink, and only eight scudi per pound.”
“Perhaps another time.” Eilwen hesitated, unsure how best to broach the purpose for her visit. “In truth, I’m not here to peruse your merchandise.”
“Of course not,” Qulah said smoothly. “A special order, yes?”
“After a fashion,” Eilwen said. “A colleague of mine came to see you last week, or maybe the week before. Ash hair and a narrow face. Name of Kieffe.”
“Ah.” Qulah stepped closer, his voice soft. “The first shipment arrived yesterday. Would you like to see?”
Shipment? Eilwen inclined her head. “Certainly.”
He nodded. “Follow me.”
Qulah withdrew a small key from his sleeve and unlocked the side door, ushering her through. The passage beyond was narrow but clean. Daylight filtered dimly through thumbnail-sized holes in the high ceiling. Eilwen matched the Tahisi trader’s brisk pace as he led her through the twisting corridor to the adjoining warehouse.
The most valuable of Qulah’s wares never appeared in his shop. When the Woodtraders — or, Eilwen suspected, most of the other trading houses in Anstice — nee
ded goods brought in from the south, they could either attempt to arrange it themselves, or they could save themselves the time and trouble and see Qulah. If said items were not technically permitted within the city bounds, the discretion of the Anstice garrison could be purchased for an additional fee, though Eilwen had no idea how Qulah had come to that arrangement. The last time the Woodtraders had attempted to reach a similar understanding with the city garrison, the man making the offer had been lucky to avoid prison.
“My apologies for not recognising you sooner,” Qulah murmured as they halted before another door. “Kieffe said he might be returning to Neysa, but he didn’t mention that you would be overseeing the order in his absence.”
“Oh, I’m not,” Eilwen said automatically. “Not really. I just…” She trailed off, thinking frantically. Overseeing the order? What on the gods’ earth are they buying — a herd of Tahisi elephants? “Several of us are working this assignment,” she said, striking out blindly. “Today, I have the pleasure of your company. Tomorrow, alas, it may be another.”
Qulah nodded as though unsurprised, but his voice matched her playful tone. “Then I thank Father Earth for today.” He opened the door. “There are lamps and sparkers on the wall,” he said, taking one for himself. “Watch your step.”
The warehouse was even bigger than it appeared from the street. Wooden crates of all shapes and sizes rose in stacked formations like monument stones. Muted traffic noise leaked in from the front of the building; but the two massive railed doors were positioned at the rear, presumably giving access via a more private laneway. The smell of sawdust hung in the air.
“Over here,” Qulah called, halting before a smaller stack and setting his lamp down on a pile of hessian sacks. Fetching a crowbar, he began to lever open the lid of the topmost crate. Eilwen gazed at the box with barely restrained curiosity. The crate was long, narrow, and no deeper than it was wide. Bolts of cloth, maybe? Surely there’s more to it than that.
The lid gave way with a sullen creak, revealing a packed layer of wood shavings. Qulah reached in and brushed the topmost shavings aside. Polished bronze glinted in the lamplight.
“Beautiful craftsmanship, is it not?” Qulah scooped another handful of shavings out of the crate, and the shape of the object was suddenly plain. “Tahisi cannon barrels. Not even the Jervians can produce finer.”
Eilwen managed a tight nod. Cannons. Gods have mercy, what are we in the middle of?
“Have you decided on a form of payment?”
“Excuse me?”
“Payment. Yes?” Qulah frowned. “Perhaps Kieffe did not tell you.”
Eilwen shook her head, still staring at the cannon. “I’m sorry. Tell me what?”
“Kieffe enquired about a discount if he paid with Tahisi coin. I offered two and a half per cent.”
“Oh. Right. We’re, uh, still working out how much currency we can put together.” The gleaming metal drew her gaze like a lodestone. With an effort, Eilwen raised her head. “You said this was the first shipment. When should we expect the next?”
“These were nearby,” Qulah said. “I have small amounts of shot and powder on the way as well. They should be here within days. After that…” He spread his hands. “The second consignment will depart Tan Tahis as soon as my message is received. Even if Mother Sea smiles, it will be several weeks at least before those goods arrive. And the third consignment, of course, must first be produced.”
“Of course,” Eilwen said weakly. Three consignments. Gods preserve us.
Qulah lifted his lamp. “Would you like a closer look?”
“Thank you, no,” Eilwen said. The warehouse air suddenly seemed stifling. “That will be fine. Thank you.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Qulah returned, bowing slightly. “I am honoured to be entrusted with your needs. The Woodtraders Guild has no better friend than Qulah.”
Maybe not, Eilwen thought, shivering as Qulah replaced the shavings and began hammering the lid back down. But we’ve sure as the Hundred Hells got some enemies.
If only I knew who the bastards were.
Chapter 11
Which of these three do you suppose amuses the gods most: your plans, your fears, or your convictions?
— Kassa of Menefir
Solitude
By the end of the day, Arandras felt as though his head had been stuffed full of damp wool and left in the sun to dry. He bent over one of the books Senisha had fetched from the library, trying and failing to make sense of the page before him. Near the windows, Narvi and Bannard debated some point of sorcery, Narvi’s calm insistence apparently not enough to persuade Bannard to the same opinion. Their conversation rose and fell, eating away at his concentration like water on sand.
It had been much the same all day: long periods of study interspersed with abstruse and sometimes vigorous discussions between Bannard and Narvi. Now and then Senisha would offer a comment, but mostly she seemed content to listen and read, and to ferry books back and forth between their room and the library. Only occasionally was Arandras asked to contribute to the discussion, and even then the questions were largely confined to the circumstances around the discovery of the urn. His talent as a linguist and his experience dealing with rare artefacts was neither called upon nor acknowledged by anyone.
The sky outside the narrow windows was orange gold when Narvi at last called a halt to the day’s efforts. Arandras collected the urn and left without a word, making his way down the curving hallways and out to the narrow strip of lawn and the blessed open air. A whisper of breeze caressed his face, its breath laced with the aromas of the city — beast and man, rotting food and delicate spices — but for once, Arandras didn’t care. He breathed deep, drinking in its refreshing coolness and releasing it with a sigh.
“That much fun, huh?”
Arandras’s eyes snapped open. Mara stood before him, one eyebrow raised in mock-query. He gave a half-chuckle. “I don’t know,” he said. “It wasn’t so bad, I suppose. I’m just…” He gestured vaguely, not sure how to finish the sentence.
“Tired?”
“That’ll do.”
“Having second thoughts?”
“Maybe.” He frowned. “No, not that. I just feel… I don’t know. Out of practice, perhaps.”
Mara hooked her thumb over her shoulder at the wide expanse of city. “Want to get away from here for a bit?”
“Weeper, yes.”
They strolled down the path between the swaying rows of saplings, Mara with her hands close to her thighs as though holding non-existent cutlasses in place.
“Say what you like about Anstice, you’ve got to agree they sell better blade oil here than anywhere else,” Mara said as they passed through the gate.
“Really?” Arandras said. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Of course you know.” Mara sounded affronted. “I just told you.”
“Well, yeah, but that wouldn’t be me agreeing with you, would it? That would be you agreeing with you.”
“Best approach all round, in my experience.”
“Hah.”
The breeze faded as they ventured further from the schoolhouse. Lamp-lighters manoeuvred their handcarts around street vendors and their customers, exchanging curses with those who stood in their way. The smell of hot pastry spilled into the street from a pie stand at one corner; further along, a lute player strolled back and forth with two small boys trailing behind. The song was unfamiliar to Arandras, but the tune was lively and the player’s voice clear. Someone tossed the musician some coppers and one of the boys darted forward, snatching them off the cobbles as the player grinned his thanks.
“Jasser and Peni are both out of town,” Mara said. “Thought I’d try Isaias before calling it a day.”
Still trying to sell that damn puzzle box. “Suit yourself,” Arandras said. “I think I’ll head down to the river.” There would be bars and chocol houses there where he might find a game, if he wished. Or perhaps not. After the day’s exertion, he
had little energy left for the dilarj board. What he really wanted was somewhere quiet and out of the way. Wherever that might be.
“I thought you’d want to come along.” Mara flicked a coin in the player’s direction and watched the boys scramble to pick it up. “Someone here is looking for that urn, right? So wouldn’t they start with the local dealers?”
“Would they? Think about the lengths they’ve gone to. Forged journals, for the Weeper’s sake! Seems to me they knew exactly where this thing was.”
“All right, maybe they did. But now they’ve lost it. They don’t know who’s got it or where it might turn up. How else are they going to find it again?”
It was a good point. He should have thought of it himself. Whatever the plan had been didn’t matter any more, now that the urn had slipped through their fingers. Whoever sought it would be improvising, and improvisation was invariably sloppy.
Assuming, of course, that they hadn’t simply given up.
“Isaias, huh?”
“For all we know, he might have the name of a buyer in his sleeve right now.”
“All right.” Arandras took a long breath. “Let’s find out.”
Isaias’s shop was on the southern edge of the old city, just inside the remains of the first city wall. Arandras had only visited the shop once before; most of his dealings with Isaias, and indeed with the other dealers here, took place during their visits to Spyridon, which in Isaias’s case occurred two or three times a year. The door was easy to miss, set back from the street between two glass-paned shopfronts. Arandras tried the handle and the door opened inward, revealing a narrow staircase. Lamplight from an unseen source bathed the wall at the top of the stairs.
“I guess he’s in,” Mara said.
The stairs creaked under their feet as they climbed, and as they neared the top Arandras heard the sounds of someone in the room above: a tuneless humming, the scrape of a chair, a loud sigh. Then a voice called out to them, genial and familiar. “Come in, friends, come in and be welcome! Isaias is delighted to make your acquaintance.”
