“Where is the worst damage?”
“It is a half vingt west of the oxen pens south of the Great Piers.”
“We’ll start there, but make sure you know all the locations. I’d like to see every break in the towpaths near Tempre.”
“Yes, Lady.”
Although Duchael’s reply was firm and direct, Mykella could sense more than a little concern hidden behind his words. Why? Storms happen.
Still, his worry suggested that something was not well, and Mykella suspected she knew the cause, but she was better off not dashing to conclusions until she inspected the destruction.
Less than half a glass later, Mykella, Duchael, and Maeltor, accompanied by a squad of Southern Guards, rode westward on the avenue toward the Great Piers. A warmish breeze blew out of the southwest, and as it swirled around Mykella, she found herself riding through pockets of cool moist air, then warm dryness.
“Captain Maeltor … directions to that … location will be waiting when we return?” Mykella did not wish to be more specific about the request she had made earlier, not with Duchael riding to her right.
“As you ordered, Lady.”
Duchael frowned but said nothing although worry continued to radiate from him.
The avenue had been cleared—mostly—except for a few larger downed trees they had to ride around, but the paving stones and sidewalks were littered with leaves and smaller branches.
“Mostly the old water oaks that the wind took down,” said Maeltor conversationally.
“They’re not supposed to be planted in Tempre,” Mykella pointed out.
“Some still are. They grow quickly and provide shade.”
Mykella turned to Duchael. “Don’t their roots try to clog the sewer tunnels?”
“We cut down any near the tunnels, Lady, and we charge the landowner. The ones beside the avenue—most were planted by Seltyrs and factors for shade…”
Mykella repressed a sigh, looking ahead to the Great Piers. There, the golden stones were clear of leaves and twigs, and the River Vedra had subsided, although it was still high enough that Mykella could have reached down and touched the water from the piers. That was a level she’d only seen a few times in her life.
As Mykella rode past the piers and toward the end of the towpath and the ox pens beyond, she saw that dirt and sand had washed into most of the pens, but the comparative handful of oxen waiting to be barged downstream had all been moved to the easternmost pen, which appeared undamaged.
“Where exactly is the first damaged section?” she asked Duchael.
“Beyond the pens…”
I know that! How far? But she only nodded and guided the gelding around the last pen and onto the stone apron that marked the space between the end of the towpath and the piers, then along the apron on the river side of the ox pens. She rode almost a full vingt on the towpath, past two hills, until they reached a point where a creek ran from between the hills and under a stone bridge into the river. On the far side of the bridge was a small ravine that the creek had cut through the towpath.
Mykella rode onto the stone bridge, a sturdy structure, if partly covered in dirt and mud, where she reined up. The foundation under the paving stones of the approach to the west side of the bridge had been eroded by the storm waters so that about a third of each of the stones protruded out over emptiness. On the far side of the new ravine, several planks protruded from the clay, although two had been smashed and twisted by the force of the water. She could just make out the ends of far larger timbers, to which the smaller planks that had been broken or swept away had been attached. Paving stones lay storm-tossed in the ravine. She glanced to her left, up the creek, then at the hill side of the bridge, where a web of branches and vegetation had matted together into a dam of sorts that blocked the brick and stone arches under the bridge.
No one’s been clearing the creek bed, and the last repairs were done with planks rather than timbers.
She turned in the saddle and looked back at Duchael. “The records for towpath repairs are in your study, are they not?”
For a moment, the assistant minister said nothing. “They should be.”
“Maintaining them has always been your responsibility, has it not?” That was a guess on Mykella’s part, but she couldn’t imagine Porofyr taking care of those details.
“Yes, Lady.”
“I will need them when we return.” She turned the gelding, carefully.
To get to the second break in the towpath required retracing their path almost to the Great Piers, then taking the avenue and side roads to the west, and finally a narrow lane to the river. There, runoff from the hills had eroded the base of the towpath, leaving a slumped mass of earth and displaced paving stones. Again, Mykella could see the signs that the area had been repaired shoddily, apparently with dirt and clay and thin timbers rather than the heavy timbers that flanked the washed-out area.
The third break was less than half a vingt farther west. It, too, had been caused by excessive runoff eroding a previously poorly repaired area. Mykella studied it briefly, then turned to Maeltor. “I’ve seen enough, Captain.” She flicked the gelding’s reins and started back.
Once they were on the avenue, she turned to Duchael. “As I said earlier, I’d like to see the records on when those sections were last repaired. As soon as we return to the palace.”
“Lady … it might be difficult to tell when…”
“Oh … we don’t get that many storms like the one yesterday. All three breaks look to have been repaired at about the same time with the same size timbers and methods. I’d wager that it happened three years ago in late summer, or five years ago in the fall. You can look there to begin with.” She smiled politely although she was seething inside, and keeping her voice level took a certain concentration.
By the time they reached the Great Piers on the return ride, in some ways, Mykella actually felt just slightly sorry for Duchael. As assistant minister to Porofyr, he was limited in what he could do—or say. Even as the daughter of the Lord-Protector, she’d found it almost impossible to prove corruption, let alone have anyone believe her or what she discovered. At the same time, she was getting tired of finding evidence of corruption everywhere.
How long has all this been going on? Since Mother’s death … or did it start long before? She doubted that she’d find a good answer to all that, but she’d discovered enough to know that it all couldn’t have started in the past few years.
When they reached the palace, Mykella rode directly to the rear courtyard—on the west side, reining up by the private entrance there. “Captain … wait here. We will likely be riding out again quite shortly. If we do, the ride will not be that long.” She turned to Duchael. “I expect the records of those repairs in my study in less than a quarter glass.”
The assistant minister paled.
Even Maeltor took a quick glance at Mykella before she dismounted and handed the gelding’s reins to the nearest Southern Guard. Mykella hurried up to her quarters, from where she dropped through the blackness to the Table chamber. The Table did not appear any brighter, not that she could tell, and she stepped up to it and concentrated on Porofyr. In instants, his image appeared. The Seltyr was wearing riding clothes and talking to a man dressed in worn pale blue trousers and shirt in the courtyard in the center of his warehouses. The sight of the supercilious and arrogant former minister made her blood seethe, but after studying the image, she let it lapse.
Since she had a little time, she also quickly looked for Cheleyza and Areyst. Cheleyza still wore the cavalry uniform and rode with several Northcoast officers. Areyst was also mounted and looked to be conducting some type of mounted maneuver.
Mykella blinked. Unlike the figures of those around him, the commander was again shaded a silvery green, and appeared hazy and even less visible.
Why is that? Because he has a trace of Talent? Is that why you couldn’t track the Ifrits with the Table? Or was that because you didn’t know them? That w
as another question she wouldn’t be able to answer soon, she suspected.
She used the darkness to return to her quarters, from where she walked to her study.
“Lady,” offered Chalmyr.
“Has anything happened of which I should be aware?”
“You have several missives from Seltyrs. I believe that they are urging you to use your resources to repair various … difficulties created by the storms.”
“I’m certain they are.” Mykella laughed harshly. “I’m still working on the towpath problem. Did any of their messengers indicate particular problems?”
“I believe the sewers have backed up in the southeast…”
That didn’t surprise Mykella. Some of those tunnels and pipes had been added later, and she doubted they had been installed with the same care as those built in the time of the Alectors. “I am certain Chief Engineer Nusgeyl can deal with those problems. Is there anything else?”
“Your sister, Lady Rachylana, had a question, but she said that she would see you later, and Minister Gharyk came by…”
Mykella listened for a time, wondering how long it would take Duchael to find the report on the towpath repairs—or if there even happened to be a report.
Close to a quarter glass later, the assistant minister arrived, hurrying into the outer anteroom and coming to an abrupt stop as he saw Mykella standing there. “Lady-Protector … here is the report you requested.” He handed her an envelope.
“Thank you. I appreciate your effort to find it quickly.” She smiled politely. “Now that I have seen the damage, you may make arrangements for the proper repair of the towpaths, but every single disbursement for timbers or goods I will see, and no new men are to be hired. Use the engineer’s crews. If he complains, I will see him. Is that clear?”
Duchael swallowed. “Yes, Lady.”
“Good. You may go.”
Duchael did not quite flee.
Mykella carried the report into her study and read through it carefully. She’d been correct. All three repairs had been accomplished five years before by the same crew in the third week of fall. More interesting was the observation that the repairs had been accomplished according to the specific directions of Minister Porofyr with the normal charges for such repairs. The report was signed by an Assistant Minister Stefyl, in the same cursive as that in which the report had been written. Mykella had no recollection of him, but she wouldn’t have.
Mykella took several moments to open the strong room and place the report on a shelf beside one of the chests. Then she locked the door and slid the bookcase back into position. She stopped in the anteroom. “I’m riding out again, Chalmyr. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
The aging scrivener nodded. “Yes, Lady.”
Mykella hurried back down to the rear courtyard, where she jump-vaulted into the saddle of the gelding—necessary because there was no mounting block nearby. At least she did so gracefully. Then she turned to Maeltor. “We’ll be heading to Seltyr Porofyr’s warehouse. Your men should have their arms ready once we’re there. We are going to deal with a corrupt traitor.”
Maeltor’s eyes widened, but he only said, “As you command, Lady-Protector.”
“You saw the bridge and towpaths. Would you have repaired them with just dirt and thin planks, and covered the packed earth under the paving stones with that thin a layer of gravel?”
“No, Lady.”
“Would you have charged the same amount as required for the right kind of repair and pocketed the difference?”
Maeltor smiled ironically. “One way or another, Lady-Protector, Tempre’s going to be very different in a year.”
Mykella nodded. She understood what the captain meant all too well. She flicked the gelding’s reins and turned him toward the east end of the courtyard.
The ride to Porofyr’s warehouse complex—less than a half vingt to the southeast of the Great Piers—took less than a quarter glass.
As they neared the iron gates, Maeltor called out, “Ready rifles. Four man front!”
The two tough-looking men at the gates to Porofyr’s warehouse courtyard looked at the Southern Guards as they reined up with their rifles ready.
“The Lady-Protector is here to see Seltyr Porofyr,” announced Maeltor.
“He’s not here, Subcaptain.”
“Oh, did he leave in the last quarter glass?” Mykella concentrated on sensing the two sentries, immediately catching their unspoken reaction.
“He’s not here.” Neither man would look at her.
“He is here. Please open the gates,” Mykella said politely.
“We can’t open them unless the Seltyr or the warehouse boss says to.”
“Then ask the warehouse boss,” replied Mykella coldly, extending her senses.
“He’s not here.”
She peered through the iron bars of the gates, catching sight of a black-haired man mounting a horse. The man was Porofyr, wearing the same riding clothes. She also could see that there was a rear gate. “Maeltor, send some men around to the left. There’s another gate there, and Porofyr’s trying to leave.”
“Gheryn and second rank! Around to the left! To the other gate! Don’t let anyone out! On the double!”
“Second rank! On your orders, sir!”
Four troopers wheeled their mounts as one and left, not at a gallop, but at good speed.
Mykella looked to Porofyr’s sentries. “It appears you were mistaken. The Seltyr is here after all. For the moment.”
At that instant came a series of whistle blasts, and the two sentries pulled out pistols.
“Fire! Fire at will!” snapped Maeltor.
Mykella extended her shields to cover the captain as shots filled the air, and most came from within the warehouse compound, some from men in dark green who appeared on balconies and roofs. No bullets struck the shields, none that she felt, anyway.
Both sentries went down, and one of the guards vaulted off his mount and searched the two, coming up with a heavy key that he inserted into the lock. The lock opened, and the heavy chains dropped away. Then the guard pulled the gates open, and Mykella immediately rode into the courtyard, urging the gelding toward the other gate—and Porofyr.
The Seltyr had ridden toward the rear gate but had turned when he’d seen the Southern Guards approaching. He saw Mykella and spurred his mount directly toward her, raising his pistol and firing. Mykella didn’t even feel the impact on her shields even after Porofyr tried to charge his mount into hers, but the Seltyr’s stallion lurched off-balance and tumbled, throwing the Seltyr to the ground. Without hesitation, Mykella reached out with her Talent and wrenched his life-thread apart.
Only then did she glance around. The remaining workers in the courtyard, those who weren’t sprawled on the ground, were being rounded up by the remaining guards. She still didn’t understand why Porofyr had ordered his men to open fire at the guards unless the Seltyr had known Mykella or the Southern Guards were coming … and he had something to hide. Since she did not see any guards in difficulty, now that the shooting had stopped, and not knowing how to be helpful, she just waited beside the stallion that had struggled back up and Porofyr’s body.
In time, Maeltor rode across the courtyard to her.
“How many men were shot?” Mykella asked.
“We only lost one,” replied Maeltor, “but three are wounded. They look to recover, I’d judge. That’s not bad. The Seltyr had what amounted to half a company of armed men. We surprised some of them, killed four. Two or three got away on foot.”
“Don’t worry about them for now,” replied Mykella.
“Lady … there’s a special wagon they were readying to leave,” said Maeltor mildly. “You should take a look at it.”
Mykella rode across the courtyard beside the captain, reining up in front of the open doors to the center warehouse.
The high-sided and roofed wagon had four black dray horses in the traces, held in place with leads by guards. The side panels of the wagon
glistened with green paint, and the black lettering on the side proclaimed POROFYR, S&F. Mykella dismounted, handed the reins to a guard, and walked up to the wagon, then around to the open rear doors. Maeltor followed. Inside the wagon were four locked chests. She probed them with her Talent. While she couldn’t be absolutely certain, she felt that all contained golds, and perhaps gems in smaller chests within the larger chests.
“Look at the wagon itself,” suggested Maeltor.
Mykella did. The side panels were actually planks covered with thin iron sheeting, and there were three concealed rifle ports on each side. Those features explained why the wagon needed four dray horses. She turned to the captain. “The wagon’s well maintained, but not new.”
“That was my thought.”
“Is the driver around?”
“My men have him by the doors.”
Mykella left the wagon, located the teamster, and walked across the shadowed warehouse to the man, using her Talent to gather the faintest outlining of light around her.
The teamster’s eyes were wide when she stopped in front of him.
“When did you get the orders to ready the wagon?”
“Only a glass ago, Lady-Protector.” The teamster’s eyes did not meet Mykella’s.
“Did the Seltyr tell you where you were headed?”
“He just said we were leaving Tempre and wouldn’t be back for a time.”
“How many men were going to accompany you.”
“Ten, like usual.”
“How many trips have you made to Southgate since the turn of spring?”
“Just one, Lady. That didn’t count the one coming back right around spring turn.”
“Did you have chests like those on that trip?”
“They were the same chests. They came back empty, I’d guess. The wagon rode lighter, anyways.”
Mykella spent almost half a glass questioning the man, but while his replies added details, she didn’t learn much new. Finally, she turned to Maeltor. “We’ll need to search both the warehouse and countinghouse, and we will take the wagon back to the palace. Do you have enough men to put a guard on the Seltyr’s villa?”
“We have enough to keep anyone from driving out with wagons … but once it gets dark, we might not see anyone who tried to get away.”
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