“Pissing blades. I was feeling better about having survived the fire, but now I’m worried about Quillan.” He fought off another yawn. “We should go see how he’s doing.”
Willem raised a brow at him. “You, mister, are too tired. You’d be asleep before we arrived. We’re going home. I’ll have Balam ask Nantli where the hospital is right now, and we can visit in the morning after the dragon show.”
“Shit, I forgot about that.” Aeron was too tired to argue, anyway.
Willem gazed around the plaza. “Look on the bright side. Whatever that group—that man—had planned, we seem to have disrupted it. And discounting what they might learn in the cellar, not a single person died in the theater.”
Aeron watched the men and women of what looked like two fire brigades hurrying about, watched the dragonlinked nearby, some of whom had returned to assisting with the fire, and watched the injured being treated, one, for some reason, with the assistance of the High Lady.
It was good that no one had died. He turned back to the dark stain on the flagstones. But had Quillan paid for their success?
+ + + + +
Lord Koen opened his eyes and blinked from the stinging fumes. Were those voices? They were. From outside the tunnel door.
He sat up. “Hello?” The smoke made him cough.
“Step clear of the hatch!” The very muffled voice was definitely coming from the storm tunnel.
What were they going to do? Was ten feet far enough? Just in case, Lord Koen grabbed Cadoc’s arm and pulled. It was not easy moving the unconscious man in the hot, heavy air filled with fumes.
Cadoc was warm, so he yet lived, though he’d not awoken.
“Are you away from the hatch?”
Lord Koen put a hand to the side of his mouth. “Yes!”
He wondered if this was all a heat-induced delusion because it looked like a large dome made of geometric glass plates appeared on the surface of the meal door. After the briefest moment there came a loud, metallic-sounding thunk, and the dome vanished, replaced by . . . more smoke? Or a kind of mist, perhaps. The mist disappeared and sorcerous light shone in from a large, perfectly circular hole in the metal hatch.
So strange. He drew his brows together. Voices, too, came through the hole.
“What happened to that part of the door?”
“It’s heading for the bottom of the river.”
Lord Koen stared at the light, ignoring the voices for the moment. Was this real?
A hand emerged from the light, gripped the edge of the hole, then pulled back. “Pissing blades!”
“Shit. Sorry. Mind the edges of the hole. They will be quite sharp.”
Koen blinked. It had to be real. He’d been saved! Once he was back at the manor, he could start working on the speech denouncing the girl’s handling of the city-wide fires.
He got to his feet. Then, when Cadoc awoke, they could—
Master Gella stepped through the hole in the door, a grim smile on her face. “Ah, Lord Koen. I cannot express how happy I am to find you alive and well.” She gestured to the door. “Please, come with us. A police wagon awaits.”
+ + + + +
“Fiske! There you are, you jackass! You think burning the building down around us was a good plan?” Sutter, the youngest of them at forty-one, was always vocal, rude, and condescending, but at least this time, his ire was understandable.
Fiske turned and steeled himself as the two approached. “That wasn’t his entire plan, I’m certain.”
“Oh?” Ina, the eldest at fifty-two, stared at him, the threat of murder in her gaze. “So where is Koen, then? I haven’t seen him since that girl took the stage. Incredibly convenient, wouldn’t you say?”
Fiske looked around. Now that they’d had a moment to recover after escaping the theater, everyone was hurrying to their private carriages, hurrying to get back to their manors and away from this horrible place. Thankfully, no one else was near them at the moment.
“Not only did we almost die in there,” Sutter stalked closer, “but I just received word on my ’writer that fires spread from burning buildings to four Raeborn businesses.” He leaned his face entirely too close. “Four!”
Fiske did not back away. “Mind yourself, Councilor! Fires spread to some of my family’s buildings as well.” He glared at both of them, gesturing widely to the other carriages. “And we shouldn’t discuss this here. We’ll convene a meeting in a quarter hour via ’mirror.”
Ina glanced around and nodded. “Agreed.”
Muscles pulsed in Sutter’s jaws, but he relented. “Fine. Don’t be late.”
The two headed off.
As Fiske climbed into his carriage, he paused briefly on the top step. “Home!”
He slumped into the seat and slammed the door shut. The carriage rumbled away, wheels clacking.
Yrdra’s pissing tits! The plan had degenerated into a complete disaster, and as he had championed the damned thing, it would hurt the Stillwell family’s standing in the consortium.
Damn Koen. Fiske had spent a great deal of resources and favors in assisting that man’s scheme. If it had been successful, the eased regulations Koen had promised would have made it simpler and cheaper for the consortium to increase its power and influence. Koen’s methods, however, were a little more drastic than Fiske would have preferred.
At the manor, he headed straight for the viewing room.
“Wine,” he said to a servant in passing. “Blush.”
It arrived before either of the other two connected. He waved off the bearer and poured a glass himself. The wine’s round softness helped calm him.
If Koen died in the fire, the expended resources would be the extent of Fiske’s losses. They were not minuscule, but they were acceptable if he thought of them as an investment that had failed to pay off. If Koen somehow escaped dying in the fire, however, there were a few things to consider.
Movement in the ’mirror drew his attention. Ina had connected.
“Fiske.” She nodded.
“Ina.” He raised the glass to her, and bowed his head slightly.
The view of Ina shifted to the top half of the ’mirror, and another filled the bottom. Sutter had connected.
The man glared. “Did you know he intended to burn the damn city down?”
Fiske took a moment. That man would be a hot-head unto death. “No, I did not. He was not forthcoming with details about the plan.”
“And you didn’t find that suspicious? Since when does anyone enter into a joint venture without knowing details!”
“I knew that fire factored into it, but not the extent, nor did I know what he intended at the theater.”
“I’m actually more concerned with what the girl intends.” Ina sipped tea from a small cup.
“Of course you are,” Sutter spat. “Did any Card family businesses suffer fires?”
She set the tea cup down and, with a fierce gaze, said, “Didn’t you understand the full import of her speech? In addition to the lofty goals she outlined for the Fair Deal plan, it seems our High Lady also intends to loosen our grip on Stronghold. Not a single company held by my family has been approached to participate in her plan, and we have several that fit its stated purposes.”
She glanced at Fiske. “Was the Stillwell family offered any Fair Deal business?”
He grunted. “No, we weren’t.”
She glanced down, presumably to where Sutter appeared in her ’mirror. “Was Raeborn?”
His eyes narrowed. “No, no offers were made to us.”
“Just so. And did you see her?” Ina’s lips pulled into a sneer. “Acting the caring leader, helping treat the wounded. That piss-poor plan of Koen’s has played directly into her damn hands. I’ll bet her reputation with the public and the sheep that were at the theater tonight will rise after this.”
“You’ll love this, then.” Sutter grimaced. “I received word on the ride here that the dragonlinked assisted with the fires. And everyone associates that damned gu
ild with her, thanks to those nahual patrols she initiated with them.”
She scowled. “How are you going to fix this disaster, Fiske?”
He’d supported the scheme, so of course they blamed him and expected a solution from him as well. “If Koen is dead, we absorb the expenditures as investment losses and move on.”
Sutter sat taller and shouted, “Move on? Are you tell—”
“IF,” raising a hand, he overrode Sutter, “Koen escaped, then we have a few scenarios to consider.”
“A few?” Ina lifted her brows. “I can think of only one that matters.”
“Only one?” He stared at her.
“Assuming he lived, of course.” She held the tea cup before her lips. “Did either of you recognize the special investigator in the theater?” She took a sip.
Fiske narrowed his eyes. “There was a special investigator in there?”
“Her name is Gella—the pretty little thing leading the evacuation.”
He did recall a woman who seemed to be in charge amidst the confusion and panic in the place.
Ina tilted her head. “How did she come to be there, do you think?”
“Was she with the High Lady?” Sutter asked.
Ina waved a hand. “Hasana had her security detail with her, so I doubt a special investigator would be needed in that capacity. But,” she looked at Fiske, “if Koen was under investigation, it is possible that she was there to arrest him or perhaps question him. That could explain his disappearance, and if so, then you, Fiske, could be implicated by him.”
As he poured more wine, he said, “I’m not a complete fool.”
“You’ll never convince me of that.”
He glared down at the muttering hot-head before lifting his gaze to her. “His own near-paranoid precautions will shield me as they shielded him.”
“You communicated with him via your ’mirror,” Ina said, “remember? I’m certain they will examine the logs of his ’mirror. How will you explain your code appearing in them?”
“I heard that Lord Koen lived here in Stronghold, and after a great deal of searching, I was able to meet his man, Cadoc, who gave me Koen’s code. My sister is an enormous fan, you see, and I contacted him regarding a private performance for her birthing day. It took many conversations, but he eventually agreed to do so via ’mirror. There were more than half a dozen people, witnesses, who sat about this very room for the performance.”
“I hope the investigator believes that, Fiske, should the need arise.” Ina set her cup down. “I really do. While I’d love to bed your sister, I dislike the notion of her succeeding you as head of the Stillwell family in the consortium. She’s even more ruthless than I.”
“Have no worries there.” He swirled the wine and took a sip. “If Koen falls, I’m protected. The Tigridia Consortium has nothing to fear.”
+ + + + +
The room was small. Now that he had a moment free of absolute panic, Chanté noted things around him aside from Quillan. A pair of wide windows filled the opposite wall, and to the left, across the cramped room from the bed, was a narrow table against another wall. To the right, a small table sat next to the top of the other side of the bed, and behind him, two uncomfortable-looking chairs had their backs against the wall near the door. There was the doctor, too, of course.
The woman was once again examining Quillan. Her initial examination with furrowed brow had worried Chanté, but she’d told him that physically, Quillan seemed fine. It was the enchantments in the lacerations that had surprised and impressed her. She was going to leave them alone for the time being. Her biggest concern, she eventually said, was why the young man hadn’t yet woken up. She’d not worry overly much, though, unless he failed to do so by the morrow.
Chanté frowned as some of that panic returned. The knot on the side of Quillan’s head wasn’t large so he’d ignored it to focus on the lacerations. But if Quillan never woke up, the worry over his hand will have been more than a little pointless.
“I can’t believe the major vein wasn’t involved with this one.” The doctor was staring at the ghostly image floating above Quillan, displaying part of his injured arm.
“It was missed, luckily. In that cut I only had those smaller vessels to repair along with a couple of nerves.”
“Nerves.” She turned to him.
Chanté stared at her, heart beating faster. Surely their medical knowledge included at least something about nerves? Had he overstepped? He could have just left out any mention of nerve repair, but—
The door opened.
“Doctor, can you give me a summary of where he stands?” Guildmaster Millinith walked in the room.
“Are you family?”
Chanté raised a hand. “She’s our Guildmaster, of the Dragon Craft guild.”
“Ah, well, could I have a word with you, ma’am? Outside?”
Guildmaster Millinith drew her brows together. “Of course.”
Chanté watched the two women leave. Had the doctor not told him everything?
Can you tell what the Guildmaster and the doctor speak of?
They are too far away.
Moving as quietly as possible, and keeping his shadow cast by the lamp from crossing the tiny window on the door, Chanté made his way over. Opening his mouth, he breathed quietly and listened. The voices were a bit muffled, but he could just make them out.
“—ver seen the like. He repaired the lacerations with this ‘sleeve’ spell he mentioned, which, by the way, I’d love to hear more about at some point. At any rate, according to him, physicians typically would reveal the spells to remove the sleeves one at a time and then perform a surgical repair, but when I manifested the spells, Gods! It was like an explosion in a yarn factory! I couldn’t see the wounds, hells, I couldn’t even see the arm for the foci everywhere. That boy must have used dozens of sleeves per wound.”
Chanté closed his mouth and swallowed. He hadn’t thought that placing so many enchantments was peculiar. Had he revealed himself via a method he hadn’t even thought to conceal?
“And how he was able to see such small details out in the field—capillaries and nerves, for Alandra’s sake!—is incomprehensible. The sheer number of spells he placed, even knowing what nerves are, and, I mean . . . it’s unprecedented. He’s unprecedented.”
“Dragonlinked receive very good medical training.”
“Very good? The boy looks to be a teenager, yet some knowledge he possesses is master-level in my craft.”
“Forget all that for the moment. What about Quillan? How is he? Will he retain the use of his hand?”
Chanté turned to the bed. Quillan’s face was lit by the soft light from the lamp.
“I . . . don’t know. If what the boy says is true, it should be fine. But nerves are tricky, we’re learning. Even when repaired, they often do not perform as well as they did before injury. It’s the lad not waking up, however, that concerns me more.”
“Oh? He hasn’t awoken?”
“He has not. And head injuries are equally as troubling as those to nerves. If he wakes by morning, all should be well, but if not . . .”
Not wake up? Heart clenching with anxiety, Chanté opened the door and stepped out.
“Oh.” Guildmaster Millinith turned to him.
“I–I’m going to walk around for a bit.”
“Alright.”
Chanté walked, and walked, and walked. He stared at the floor, not seeing, not even thinking, really. He was on the verge of tears, highly anxious, and very angry.
Is Quillan okay?
I don’t know.
Is that why you are upset?
No. Mayhap. I don’t know.
Is there anything I can do?
I love you dearly, but right now, I just need to be alone.
Okay.
Her compassion, her willingness to let him be, nearly made him lose control right then and there. Not wanting to cry in front of anyone, he searched for a way to escape the hallways and the others w
alking blankly along them.
There, a sign. To Roof.
He took the stairs two at a time.
The handrail was cold and damp in the cool night air. As tears made quiet sounds on the metal rail, Chanté stared over the edge of the building, out at the star-filled darkness of the night sky.
Behind, the door opened and closed. Quiet footsteps approached and stopped to the left.
“It’s difficult when someone you care about is injured.” Guildmaster Millinith stared out over the city.
He turned to the patterned lights of Stronghold at night. After taking a deep breath, he slowly let it out. “I’m so very tired.”
“It has certainly been a long day.”
“Tired of hiding, tired of feigning ignorance about certain things, tired of having to be so damn careful around my friends. I cannot tell you how exhausting it is to have to think two or three times about my words before I speak. I’m always afraid that I might reveal my true self.”
The Guildmaster grunted. “So even gods can be afraid.”
She already knew? Eyes wide, he turned at her. “I–I never outright lied to you, to anyone. Not really.”
“Why are you afraid, though? As a god, you’re never in any real danger.”
“I’m not a god right now. My father, the being you call Garathel, locked that part of me away, made me into this human and then abandoned me here. I hated it, loathed being forced to live as a human. All I wanted was for this to end, but my father made it clear that I would not be able to reclaim my former self without going through this punishment. I would have to live out a human life, something I knew nothing about. So at first, I was afraid of not fitting in, of giving myself away and losing the shelter and food provided by the guild.”
“At first?”
“My father set some rules that I may have broken. I just had to. So I might be forced to leave here, to leave you all, to leave—” He pressed his lips together against the emotions churning within and turned back to the city.
The street lamps swirled and smeared, like exploding stars in his blurry gaze. “The thing I wanted the most . . . is now the thing I fear the most.”
“Why wouldn’t you want to return to your true self?”
Of Gods, Trees, and a Sapling: Dragonlinked Chronicles Volume 4 Page 98
