The small room inside was stifling. Someone had built a fire in the hearth, but it was still too early for the chill to settle over the desert. A couple of chairs, tables, and ostentatious art pieces decorated the room, a mishmash of styles from all over the Seven Cities, gaudy in their dissimilarity. A stout man levered himself from a chair, smoothing messy brown hair going to gray at the temples. House Shom’s three white dragonflies stood out on the shoulder of his black doublet.
“Ah! Welcome,” he said. “Peruvan Bollos. I am the chief trader here. You would be Alaeda Stel, yes?”
She nodded.
“Far prettier than my reports suggested,” he said and put an arm around her shoulders, leading her inside.
His friendliness did not extend to his grip. His strength did little to put her at ease. He was a man unaccustomed to hunger, she could see, with his paunch and jowls, yet there was strength in him still. He led her to a wooden chair and took the one opposite. Phytos leaned against the wall, his face blank.
Peruvan leaned forward. “Master Mordis will be along in a moment, I am sure. Can I offer you any refreshments? You must be tired from the journey. We receive so few visitors here.”
Although quite thirsty, Alaeda waved away his hospitality. House Shom honored few customs of hospitality, and any offered cup could contain more than wine or water.
“It is a great honor to play host to House Stel,” he said. “In fact, I cannot remember the last time we received anyone from your family.”
Alaeda nodded. “An oversight, I am sure.”
Peruvan’s eyes did not match his smile. “An oversight I hope we can correct. I have always hoped for more cooperation between the great merchant houses.”
When Alaeda said nothing, Peruvan settled back in his chair and examined his nails.
After several minutes, Alaeda said, “Mordis is here, yes?”
“He is; he is. And he’s very keen to meet you. He should be along in a few moments.” He crossed his legs. “It’s a great honor to host Master Mordis. A wise and great trader like himself and all gracing my doorstep.” He smiled again. “This must be an important meeting to draw him from Nibenay?”
“It is,” she said. His ignorance about the meeting revealed much about Peruvan. Alaeda had heard Fort Inix was something of exile for traders and merchants who somehow displeased Giovvo Shom, and an assignment there was often the last stop before the grave.
The chief trader’s face fell, but he recovered. “I have rooms prepared for you. Your men can stay in the barracks.”
She expected he’d love to keep her soldiers penned up. She didn’t trust the people there. A belgoi stood outside. She expected trouble and wasn’t about to cloister her soldiers, not when she might need them.
“Very generous of you. My men will be more comfortable in the courtyard, though.”
“Ah. Well. Very well,” he said.
Peruvan pursed his lips and tried again. “Have you ever been to Nibenay?”
“I have,” said Alaeda.
“And how did you like the City of Spires?” he asked.
“Well enough. I wasn’t there long.”
“Oh?”
Alaeda smiled and nodded but offered nothing further.
“Did you take in any games while you were there?” he asked.
“I am afraid I did not.” She thought back. “I recall something about a champion’s game or some such while I was there. I didn’t see it, though.”
“Ah, champion’s day! How very exciting.”
“As I said, I didn’t attend. It was almost a year ago,” she said.
“A shame you didn’t,” he said. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward once more. “Champion’s day is a grand spectacle, an event like no other at the arena, with fabulous matches pitting the city’s best warriors against the worst desert beasts. Teams take on visiting warriors from other cities. Jaz’zt dancers carve up criminals. There are dramas, comedies, and sometimes the Shadow King himself emerges from the Hidden City to address the people. It is all very exciting.” He leaned back and rubbed his bearded chin. “I haven’t been home in many years, but while I was there, I went as often as I could.”
Phytos grunted. Alaeda knew he had no love for the arena games.
“Yes. I do miss the city. Oh, but don’t get me wrong. I am grateful to hold this post, even if it denies me simple pleasures. It is a great honor to be chosen to serve at Fort Inix.”
“I imagine. How long have you held this post?”
“Several months, since last High Sun. Hard to believe it’s been that long.”
Alaeda nodded.
Peruvan filled the silence with more stories from Nibenay, but Alaeda stopped listening. She was worried about the delay and fought against her anger for having to wait. It was a common enough tactic and one she herself had used. Anticipation bred sloppiness, and a careless word or angry outburst could upset what promised to be a delicate negotiation, mistakes she imagined Mordis wanted her to make. She emptied her mind and let Peruvan’s words fill the air.
She knew little of Mordis beyond what she had told Phytos. Ambitious, cunning, and self-serving, his loyalty to House Shom was above reproach. Through his efforts alone, House Shom had escaped complete destruction incurred by its masters’ excesses, and Mordis always found a way to keep coin in the house’s coffers. There were limits, however, and Mordis was running out of coin. Giovvo Shom’s appetites were vast. House Shom needed funds soon. House Stel would be happy to provide those funds, provided Shom did them a service. House Stel wanted House Shom to harry Tyr enough to divide King Tithian’s attention between Shom-sponsored raids on caravans and farmsteads and Urik’s fast-approaching army. Shom needed coin. Stel needed brigands.
A dwarf in a smock appeared in the hallway. She was plain, unremarkable but for the dragonfly brand on her forehead. It marked her as a slave. The dwarf did not raise her eyes when she said, “Master Mordis will see you now.”
Peruvan blinked several times before he slapped his hands on his knees. “Ah. Well. You have been pleasant company, my dear. Dor will take you to Master Mordis. If you need anything, call.” They all stood and Peruvan watched Alaeda and Phytos follow the dwarf down the hallway until they reached the door at the end.
The slave rapped three times.
“Come.”
She opened the door for Alaeda and Phytos, giving them a bow as they walked past her and into the small meeting room beyond. A round table took up most of the space, and canvas and wood chairs sat around. Bone statuettes stood on display atop a sideboard laden with crystal cups and water in a decanter. A gaudy chandelier, also made from bones, hung from the ceiling, its spurs reaching down like claws hovering a few feet above the table.
Several guards lined the far wall, all in carapace armor and armed with spears. Their master, Alaeda guessed, sat at the table, watching her from behind steepled fingers. He was younger than she had expected. A thin beard darkened his cheeks, and a faint mustache colored his upper lip. Alaeda felt an instant attraction to the man, an attraction she quashed when she remembered her purpose and how dangerous he was rumored to be.
“If there is nothing else?” asked the slave.
Mordis dismissed her with a wave. “Alaeda Stel, yes?” he asked. He had a faint lisp.
Alaeda nodded.
Mordis indicated she should sit with another gesture. He looked to Phytos and said, “Be a good man and close the door, would you?”
Phytos grunted. The door shut with a click behind Alaeda. She could feel Phytos standing behind her, guessing his arms were crossed and radiating menace as he always did during negotiations.
Neither Alaeda nor Mordis spoke. Each seemed to wait for the other to begin. Mordis’s bright blue eyes, smooth features, and manicured nails told her of a life of luxury and comfort. The golden ring on his pinky finger, a serpent eating its own tail, hinted at wealth. He wore mauve robes, slashed with white stripes. The black cuffs and collar made him seem out of place in the wilderness. He di
dn’t belong in the rotting outpost any more than she did.
Mordis broke the silence. “Welcome to Fort Inix.”
“Thank you.”
“Your man, can he be trusted?”
“Without question. Yours?”
“What they hear they cannot repeat. I had their tongues torn out long ago,” he said, as if such mutilation happened every day. “We could sit here all night, exchanging little pleasantries, but I am a busy man and have made a long journey to reach this wretched place. You have done the same, I imagine. Our houses have never been friendly. We have, in fact, found ourselves on opposite sides of no few battles, as I’m sure you know. So imagine my surprise when I receive a letter to meet you. I was even more surprised to find out you had spent time with my master’s son, Jebea Shom.”
“I did,” she said, her voice as neutral as she could make it to control her surprise.
“And how was he? We do not hear from him.”
“Beset,” she said.
“Explain.”
She bristled. “I found him besieged by gith. I have never seen so many. They crawled out from the tunnels in the mountains like vermin. To even reach the gates, we had to carve a path, and to ensure we could … negotiate, House Stel contributed to the outpost’s defense. I would not give it more than a few weeks before the gith overrun it. Without reinforcements, Jebea Shom is dead.”
Mordis almost smiled, corrected himself, and frowned. “Dire news. It would be a great tragedy to lose a Shom heir.”
“Any fool can see why he’s there. Alone. You mean for him to die.”
Mordis bristled. “Me? I have no intentions for Jebea.” He leaned back in his chair. “So this is the reason for the meeting? House Stel is throwing its support behind a Shom heir?”
Alaeda felt her frustration building. The conversation had gotten away from her, but she felt moved to defend the man she had met and abandoned a month earlier. “He wants change. He wants reforms, an to end the excess. He wants to save Shom from itself.”
“He is an idealist,” he said, but he didn’t disagree.
“And he will die for his ideals. I have never met a more irrational man,” she said.
“Irrational?”
“Change on the scale he wants takes coin. I offered. He refused,” she said.
“Did he give a reason?”
“I believe he said something about not selling his birthright.” Alaeda did not mention the long night they shared, during which time he confessed his hatred for his father and his fear for his life. “But Jebea Shom and his plight are not why I asked for a meeting.”
“No. No, it’s not, though he impressed you. However, you are a merchant, and you would have expected something in exchange for your generous gift. Jebea refused and so you come to me. Interesting. What is at stake that you found it necessary to travel from one side of the world to the other to make a bribe? And even if I accepted your offer, what makes you think I can do anything? Or would do anything? I am Giovvo Shom’s most valued and trusted servant. So why would I help you remove Giovvo from power?”
It was Alaeda’s turn to lean back in her chair. Mordis was close to the truth, but he had misinterpreted her house’s intent. House Shom was too far gone to ever be a threat to House Stel, whether Giovvo Shom remained in power or not.
After almost a minute, Alaeda resorted to the truth. “Your house is dying, and the fault for this rests on Giovvo Shom’s shoulders. While your master tickles his slave girls and bets on arena matches, your agents drain your family’s coffers, taking their ‘fair share’ from the profits. Your emporiums”—she raised both hands, indicating Fort Inix as an example—“rot. The remaining power House Shom has left lays in the fading memory of stronger, better days.”
“You came all this way to insult my house?” he spit, angry.
“It’s not your house, but it could be.”
“Ah. There it is,” he said. He smoothed his robes, covering his effort to control his emotions. “Lady, you are mistaken. I am not for sale. I will not betray my house.”
“I’m not trying to buy you, sir. Neither is House Stel,” she said.
“Then what? What is it you want?” he sneered.
“We want to help you. We don’t want a world without House Shom, especially with House Tsalaxa on the move, claiming markets once held by your master. House Shom’s fall will upset the balance and, thus, endanger my own house,” she said.
“I see. I am afraid you are in error about Shom. We are strong still, and we will continue to be strong for the foreseeable future. Master Shom indulges his interests, but we are not impoverished. Even if we were as bad off as you say, I can say with confidence my master would never allow charity. I am sorry you have wasted your time, but this meeting is at an end.” He made to stand.
Alaeda felt her control slipping. She would not fail. She felt her nervousness from encountering the belgoi fade, her uncertainty about the mission vanish. Anger drove her toward an aggressive stance. “Then you are deluded. Sit down. I have not finished yet.”
The guards stepped forward at her tone. Phytos did the same, a step quicker, balling his hands into fists.
Mordis froze, face flushed, mouth set in a tight line.
Alaeda pressed. “You and I both know Shom is the laughingstock of the great houses. Look at this place. Waste and excess all around us. These are drains on your resources, hastening the rot your mad master began. We both know Shom has seen better days. Why deny it?”
Mordis had no answer.
“What Shom needs—what you need—is capital. Giovvo Shom has done great damage to your house’s fortunes, yet in every city, in every outpost, I hear rumors about how your people steal your goods and line their pockets with the profits. And Temmnya Shom is as bad as her father. If she comes to power, there’s no hope for you at all. My family is your last, best chance. We’re offering you a gift, a way to rebuild, to cut out the cancer, and heal your house.”
“Such generosity would come at a price,” he said, retaking his seat.
Alaeda realized she was breathing hard. She controlled herself. “Tyr,” she said. “It involves Tyr.”
The z’tal growled at Korvak from behind the bars of its little cage. It wanted to be free from its prison, and it prowled the edges, looking for escape. Korvak studied the lizard, noting its gleaming scales and the tiny rows of serrated teeth in its maw. The golden eyes were alert and aware, revealing a cunning Korvak found unnerving in something anyone else would consider vermin.
Although the z’tal remained in the cage and Korvak sat outside it, they were both prisoners. Korvak’s cage just didn’t have bars. And just as Korvak felt unmoved by the creature’s plight, he knew his masters, the institution of the templars, and even the new king had no sympathy for his own.
He raised himself from the chair. He stretched his arms over his head until he heard his joints pop then resumed his pacing through the dusty Vault of Records, the great repository of useless information, the fate Korvak earned by remaining loyal to the dead sorcerer-king. In the light cast by the flickering green globes drifting near the ceiling, Korvak saw the endless racks and shelves holding scrolls and ledgers recording all the lore collected during King Kalak’s thousand-year reign. Hidden in the piles were histories, records, and more, priceless recollections about Tyr’s past. Such knowledge was never intended for the common person to learn and remained in the templars’ hands, where it had remained since Kalak raised his first templars.
In another life, Korvak might have indulged his interests, exploring the writings from greater men than he. As he looked at them, they held all the appeal of a prison cell. He stopped and cast a glance at the desk, which had for many weeks served as his bed. There, inventory lists and meaningless records sat in a heap alongside a stack of fresh papyrus, an ink pot, a pouch of sand, and a quill. The copyist’s life was his fate for choosing the wrong side in the uprising, for remaining loyal to a mad king whose designs and intentions were beyond eve
n the templars’ best guess.
No one checked his progress. No one made sure he completed his work. He was out of the way, hidden in Tyr’s bowels where he could cause no further trouble for the new regime. Korvak had managed well in the aftermath. Even as outspoken as he had been in his support of the old king, he retained his office and holdings. Everything changed when Korvak confronted the king about the nobles murdered at an estate on Tyr’s outskirts. The assassins had burned the building, but Korvak’s investigation had turned up enough evidence to suggest the king had a hand in their deaths. King Tithian listened to Korvak’s accusations then him sent away.
Korvak sighed. Looking back, Korvak was sure he could have approached the king with a little more subtlety. Tithian’s ambition and ascent to power annoyed him, though. Tithian was one of Kalak’s most favored templars, and yet he swept in to claim the crown without a thought for his deceased master. Tithian needed to be humbled. Korvak had tried. Korvak had failed. And he earned the room he stood in for his trouble.
He glanced at the cage. He fished out a small wooden ball from one of the pockets sewn into his cassock and rolled it around in his hand. The lizard watched him.
“To think, I am here,” he said. “You might not believe it, little friend, but I was once among the highest and most esteemed templars in Kalak’s service. At a word, I could strip a noble of his titles and holdings. With a command, I could have the skin flayed from his back. I had the authority of the sorcerer-king. Few stood higher than I did in my master’s eyes. And yet here I am. This,” he said, gesturing to the scrolls, “is how my new masters repay loyalty to the old.”
The z’tal cocked its head.
“I should be grateful for my life? I should be grateful for the few freedoms accorded to me? My peers didn’t keep me alive out of mercy. I can name ten others who fought at my side who were not spared, who supported my accusations against the king. They are dead. Yet I still live. Why? Because I still have power. I can still call up Kalak’s magic when so few others can. I can leave this room whenever I wish. How could they stop me?
Death Mark Page 3
