by J. S. Morin
Tanner’s sword whipped around in response, sliding past Kyrus’s awkward attack, and slamming into the side of his neck.
“Dead,” Tanner said with a shrug. “Or would be if you didn’t have a shield spell like the walls of Raynesdark … from about two seasons ago, anyway.”
“Aye, Brannis, give those little twigs dangling from your shoulders a rest,” Varnus added. “Even dead men need a good dawn feast.”
“It ought to be here soon,” Kyrus said. “I arranged for a full dawn feast to be brought up. I have things to discuss with both of you besides swordplay.”
A disturbance in his wards alerted Kyrus to the arrival of their meal. The servants had been taught the proper spot to knock where the wards would not suffocate any hint of noise from the outside. Two young cooks’ assistants carried covered platters that smelled of fresh-cooked meats and citrus, a young serving girl brought a pitcher of ale and tankards, and a group of porters carried in a small table and chairs for them.
“I had half-expected field rations and last night’s bread with a bit of water to wash it down with. Ale in the morning … my sort of dawn feast,” Tanner said once the assemblage of servants had departed.
“We don’t allow that dried leather you soldiers eat past the palace gates,” Varnus said, tankard in hand already.
“Well, I meant that with the coronation tonight, I expected the servants to be too busy to make such a diversion for us.”
“Well, I have a bit of a say in such things,” Kyrus said with a sly grin. “As to the selection, I picked a few of the things that seem to taste close enough to Tellurak fare that it does not bother me. The spices are all wrong, the game fowl seem a bit … foul, many of the fruits here do not seem sweet enough, and I do not know what you do to the waters in Veydrus to make the fish taste too oily. The citrus is strong enough to overpower any strange flavors, though, and bacon … well, the bacon tastes just like home.”
“And the ale? You prefer it over mulled wine, or even just plain water with breakfast?” Tanner asked, humoring Kyrus’s treatise on the local cuisine.
“Well, it took a few days to realize the cause, but the drinking water was giving me the runs. The wines here feel grimy in my mouth, like they could have used a straining through a fine cloth. Do they leave the skins ground up in it or something of the like?” Kyrus asked.
“Gut me if I know,” Varnus replied. “At least you’ve got ale, eh?”
“Well, the ale was merely the best among bad options,” Kyrus replied, lifting his eyebrows and his tankard in unison.
Kyrus waited until they had settled in, and begun their meal in earnest, before deciding it was time to change to more delicate topics. The wards in the room ought to have given them privacy enough should anyone attempt to eavesdrop. Kyrus could only hope that he would be perceptive enough to notice should anyone test themselves against those wards.
“So how fare you two on the other side?” Kyrus asked, leaving the question open ended, lest he get an exact answer that left out details. If he was to set up his own private network of spies, he ought to at least act like a master of intrigue.
“Well, Captain Denrik Zayne wanted me to convey to you that this whole war was just a simple misunderstanding,” Tanner said, causing Kyrus’s eyes to widen in surprise. “You see, there were these detailed orders on how not to launch a war against us, and a splotch of ink happened to fall on the ‘not’ bit.”
“Stow it, jester. Be serious,” Varnus chided Tanner, giving him a backhanded slug in the shoulder. “Stalyart hasn't even got you to Zayne’s ship yet, and we all know it.”
“Hey now! I’m stuck for days on a ship in the middle of the Katamic with a bunch of pirates. I got nothing to do but swill rum, and gamble at dice and cards. Can’t even properly enjoy it, though, worrying ’bout a knife in the back, shield or no shield. I think I’m entitled to piss in Brannis’s ale a bit in return,” Tanner said. Kyrus paused mid sip, giving Tanner a narrow-eyed glare. “Figure of speech, of course,” Tanner said.
“Well, at least there you’ve got rum and cards,” Varnus commented. “Did either of you hear that there were three bodies found last night? Separate incidents scattered about Kadris, but all three were sorcerers.”
“No,” Kyrus answered, Varnus having taken the entirety of his attention away from Tanner’s jests. “I have not left these quarters yet today.”
“City guards were handling it, but the Inner Circle pulled them off the job. Dolvaen assigned a bunch of sorcerers to look into it.”
“Anyone important?” Tanner asked.
“No more so than a typical sorcerer, I would say. Two Sixth Circle I never heard of, and a Fourth Circle by the name of Kaman who tried courting one of Juliana’s cousins a while back. Didn’t know him well, but I knew his face well enough to find him in a crowd.”
“Megrenn assassins, that’d be my guess,” Tanner speculated. He mimed a dagger thrust to the back. “More of those invisible fellows like tried to snuff out Warlock Rashan and Mr. Tellurak here.”
“No …” Kyrus began, causing Varnus and Tanner to wait expectantly in the heavy pause he left as he gathered his thoughts. “I think not. The coronation is tonight. Not everyone has been enamored of the choice of successor to the throne. The city is packed to the rafters with visitors despite the war going on, meaning that there are likely many more sneak-blades about than usual, coming in with the noble guests.”
“You think this is the start of a coup? They were no powerful or influential sorcerers, the three victims. It seems an unlikely first open move for one,” Varnus said.
“Well, Megrenn’s already tried twice, so why not assume it was them until you’ve got a better idea?” Tanner countered.
“I do have a better idea,” Kyrus answered, his voice hollow, his gaze vacant, as if he were musing on his own thoughts, rather than conversing. “Rashan has said since before Raynesdark that he suspected plots against him. I have reason to believe that to be true. This could mean that, in the shadows, sides are being drawn among the Imperial Circle.”
“Sides? What sides?” Tanner asked. His bean-shaped face scrunched up even farther in a look of confusion and concern.
“Those who support Rashan and those who would rather see him replaced as regent—by someone other than his handpicked bastard descendant of his old friend Emperor Liead.”
Varnus cast Kyrus a wary glare.
“Which side are we on?”
“Mine, I am hoping,” Kyrus replied. “As to which side I have picked, I have not picked at all yet. By rights, I ought to support Rashan, since he is the reason I am in this position at all … grand marshal that is, not me being switched with Brannis; that was my own doing.”
“So the dead sorcerers, which side were they on?” Tanner asked.
“If I knew that, I might be able to tell you which side I was on,” Kyrus answered.
* * * * * * * *
The corridors of the palace teemed with servants intent upon tasks they surely had been told were crucial to the coronation ceremony. A misplaced tablecloth, or one pheasant too few for the banquet, and we would have to find a new emperor, Juliana thought sourly as she wove her way through the press of bodies. A few who recognized her gave way, and allowed her to pass, but she was wearing a plain grey tunic and men’s breeches, nothing that would single her out as a member of the Imperial Circle, let alone the regent’s oathdaughter. Still, being caught up in the tide of busy humans was better than dwelling alone in her room or passing idle chatter with the folk who made a habit of lounging about the palace. If nothing else, her current circumstance was a temporary inconvenience until she could escape the confines of the palace grounds, and hide out by the waterfront until her duties required her back for the ceremony.
“Juli!” she heard a shout from behind her down the hall. It was a woman’s voice, but not a very feminine one. Juliana slouched slightly, and continued walking, hoping her pursuer would lose track of her amid the throng. Being an
Archon had its disadvantages, though. Even slouching, she was taller than most of the peasant folk about her, and her reddish-gold hair shone like a lighthouse beacon among the drab brunettes and pale blondes surrounding her.
“Juli, wait!” the voice came again, closer than the last time. Even if she had not recognized the timbre and tone, the use of the disused diminutive form of her name would have narrowed the list of suspects to a short list: classmates from the Academy who had been too much older or stronger than her to beat until they stopped calling her that. She gritted her teeth, paused, and waited for Brannis’s older sister to catch up to her.
Aloisha Solaran was almost Juliana’s height, but shaped nearer to Soria’s more muscular frame, with a mannish jawline and wide blue eyes that offered a challenge wherever they looked. Those eyes swept up and down Juliana as she got close enough for the crowd to part between them.
“Washerwoman got your Circle garb? Rinsing the sweat stains and the smell of ale away before the coronation ceremony?” Aloisha asked with a smirk. “I am sure I could loan you a gown, if you would prefer, though it might hang a bit loose on you.”
“You’re one to talk,” Juliana retorted, eyeing the elaborate nest of braids curled about Aloisha’s head. “Last time I saw you primped like this was for your own wedding. You usually just go about like a man who grew his hair long, and stuffed a pair of melons into a gown. I have work to do, and I’m dressed for it.”
“Work? You? I had thought your father got you that appointment as contraband inspector just so you had an excuse to hang about in disreputable ale-halls all day.”
“I am good at my job. I just don’t do it the way everyone would expect. At least I am suited to mine. You look like the serving maid, or the scribe for the Inner Circle when you’re all gathered together,” Juliana retorted. She would be gutted before she let Aloisha run her to ground verbally.
Aloisha Solaran fumed silently for a moment, lips pressed tight in an obvious effort to remain civil, or at least as civil as either of them had been to that point. She drew a deep, steady breath. She took Juliana by the arm and pulled her aside, dragging her into one of the guard rooms near where they had been standing.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Juliana demanded, twisting free of Aloisha’s grasp. It took a degree of self-control to keep from using a Tezuan technique to flip the elder sorceress to the ground, breaking her wrist in the process.
The door slammed shut behind them. Juliana knew Aloisha was holding it closed telekinetically, in lieu of warding it.
“We need to talk.”
“We were talking out there,” Juliana noted.
“Was it you?” Aloisha demanded.
“Was what me?”
“The three murders last night. Three dead sorcerers the night before the coronation. The Inner Circle are having fits over it.”
“What would make you think that—”
“Raynesdark. I heard the stories, and pieced it together. Goblin assassin in the castle dead by your hand the night before the battle. A half dozen guards and Sorcerer Ruuglor Megaren dead by dagger, but no dagger found on the assassin’s body. After the battle, Duke Pellaton found dead, same wounds, dagger left by his body.”
“So why do you assume it was me?” Juliana asked, crossing her arms in front of herself defiantly.
“I brought my theory to Rashan, and he agreed. He had assumed it was you all along, but did not care enough to mention it. I got the impression he was not bereft over the duke’s death, and I decided not to press him on it.”
“If I did, you think that means I’m responsible for those murders last night?”
“You do not just hire any jack-blade out of the alleys, and set him off on a merry romp among the Circle. Whoever killed three in one night knew what they were doing around magic.”
“Thanks ... I think. But I had nothing to do with them. And if I had, what had you planned to do about it?”
Aloisha’s eyes unfocused for a moment. “You are carrying those daggers my brother gave you as a wedding gift,” Aloisha said, making an accusation of it. “What would you have done if I had said I was going to tell Rashan it was you, attack me? You are Sixth Circle, and content to remain so. I am Inner Circle; I could crush you like a gnat if you tried it.”
“Well, it is a very good thing that I had nothing to do with those murders, then, isn’t it?” Juliana said. Faster than Aloisha could react, a pair of daggers appeared in Juliana’s hands, blades poised beneath the startled sorceress’s ears. Each of Aloisha’s dangling earrings was delicately draped over a bared dragon-bone blade. “I would hate to have gotten hurt.” Slowly, Juliana lowered the blades, and returned them to the recesses beneath her tunic. Aloisha had managed no more than a startled intake of breath.
Swallowing, and letting out a shuddering breath to calm herself, Aloisha broached the subject one further time: “There are forces at work to tear down Warlock Rashan, and return control of the Empire to the Circle. Which side are you on?” Aloisha asked, more politeness evident in her tone than before she had been frightened.
“I don’t think I am quite the kind either side is interested in recruiting, if indeed there are sides at all. I’ve heard Rashan rant about conspiracies before, but I assumed he was paranoid. It’s one of the perks of being important, as far as I can tell. I assume you have sided with Rashan, since he’s the only reason you aren’t still Third Circle.”
“Yes, the whole family is with Rashan, but I am less certain of the Archons. The death of High Sorcerer Gravis sits ill with them.”
“Yeah, I was never fond of my grandfather, but he was my blood. Still, even if I don’t side with him, I’m certainly not fool enough to side against Rashan. Besides, I’d hate to have to get my oathsister’s blood all over my nice new daggers. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have places to be.” Juliana shouldered her way past Aloisha, and found the telekinesis spell that had held the door was no longer doing so.
She tried to gather her thoughts while she wove through the tangle of servants, headed for the palace gates. She had heard of the murders, of course—they were the talk of the city that morning, with rumors spreading like the morning sunlight—but had not thought it to be a fight within the Circle for control of the Empire.
* * * * * * * *
Kyrus arrived at Rashan’s office to find Celia waiting there in his stead. She sat demurely, legs crossed, hands in her lap. She started to get up when Kyrus entered, but a look of disappointment crossed her features as she sat right back down again.
“I had thought Rashan was back,” she said, by way of apology. She stifled a yawn.
“Glad to know where I rate,” Kyrus commented with an amused grin. “I thought you were going to be working for Caladris now.”
“I do, and he often has me running errands between the two of them. But I have personal business with the warlock.” She raised her eyebrows, and turned her head a bit, as if challenging Kyrus to ask about it.
“Well, he had left word that he wanted to see me, so I assumed he would be here. Do you know where he is?”
“He is the busiest man in the Empire; he could be anywhere. He is even busier than you, Brannis, though I would wager you do not think so often. You can wait here with me, if you like,” Celia offered.
“I suppose I will have to,” Kyrus replied, blushing as he realized how that must have sounded. “I meant that I have a lot of things to do as well, as you mentioned. But I cannot just ignore Rashan’s request.”
Kyrus walked over behind the desk and sat down.
“You should not sit there,” Celia said. “I would not want to see Rashan get angry.”
“It is the only other chair here. It is not as if he would kill me for taking his seat anyway. He is not quite that temperamental.” Kyrus was only partially certain on that last point.
Celia said nothing after that, just sat there looking nervous. She did not look directly at Kyrus, but as he sat at Rashan’s desks, surrounded by confide
ntial reports on troop movements and Kadrin political affairs, his eyes were drawn to her. The hair does not quite match, he thought, comparing her to his mental image of Abbiley. The build is close … very close, but Celia is a touch thinner, and her breasts are higher. The nose seems about right. The eyes are identical. Celia’s teeth are perfectly straight and white, while Abbiley’s are more natural looking. She sounds like Abbiley, Kyrus added mentally, though he knew his ear for such things was poor. It seemed a horrible question, but he had to ask it of himself anyway: If I was Abbiley, and had the magic to do so, what would I change about myself? That was the crux of it.
“You keep looking over this way,” Celia mentioned.
Kyrus turned his gaze away, and blushed anew. “There are not many places to look in here. It is a small office. I cannot help where my eyes are drawn,” Kyrus said. He tried to focus his attention on a guest list for the reception after the ceremony.
“Had a change of heart perhaps?” Celia asked, a playful note sneaking into her voice, accompanied by a shy smile.
Kyrus’s brow burrowed in genuine contemplation. Have I?
A change of heart would imply that he had not been attracted to her ever since noticing the resemblance she bore to Abbiley when he first saw her through Brannis’s eyes. Or it would imply that he had been initially attracted to her, but was no longer.
“No.” Kyrus’s voice went hoarse on him. He cleared his throat, and tried again. “No, I have not.” He smiled in her direction. She smiled back, showing those perfect teeth that reminded him that even if she was Abbiley in Tellurak, she was different here.
“There is nothing in our way, you know,” Celia said, obviously having guessed at how Kyrus had meant his answer. She was smart, one of the things he admired in her.
“There are a great many things in the way. Again as you pointed out, I am busier than anyone except perhaps the warlock.”
“No one is making you sketch up new runes to build airships with. You have no duties to the Circle. Just manage the army—which should be enough work for any man—and leave the rest to others. And … well … do not make yourself any more of a target than you already may be.”
