Valkwitch (The Valkwitch Saga Book 1)

by Michael Watson

  Van Delmor visited each stall bearing the crest of Khalan Northwest: a green circle with the upper left quadrant painted gold, usually with a wheat stalk curling through the green. Tyrissa’s time in Khalanheim was an immersion lesson in the ins and outs of the guild system, of the interplay and unsaid rankings of the Minors, Majors, and Primes, and their kaleidoscopic variety of crests and logos. It was like learning a second language, the city’s symbolic shorthand. The King of Food had no real agenda today, this visit to the market was merely an extended, distributed social call to the hands and backs that filled his bank accounts and built one pillar of Khalan Northwest’s business. He buzzed like a honeybee from stall to storefront to cart-pushing youth, chatting briefly with whomever stood behind the counter, occasionally taking a sample without payment or complaint. He ate as he walked, his four guards keeping a tight perimeter around their portly charge, a white and red ring drifting through a green and gold sea.

  Eyes betray intent.

  Tyrissa could see no such intent today. One thing the training hammered into her head was the recent growth of paranoia among Khalanheim’s wealthy. They were spooked by the sudden boldness of the resurgent Thieves and would pay for the comfort and security of firms like Kadrich’s Cadre. But today, in the shifting masses of the Harvest Market, no one paid them any undue attention.

  “Master van Delmor,” said a gruff voice from one stall bearing the guild badge, “A word?”

  Five sets of eyes went to a farmer standing behind a table densely packed with fresh greens. He had a grievance to air upon van Delmor, nothing more. The King listened with periodic and polite jowl-wobbling nods. Tyrissa kept her eyes on the market crowds as they passed through a nearby square. The center of the square was decorated with an aged stone fountain composed of stacked bushels of wheat, streams of water arcing out from the center of each bushel. A fire juggler in the middle of her routine stood at the pool’s rim.

  Judge distractions benign or malicious.

  The juggler was a waif of a girl, about Tyrissa’s age with the thin figure and shabby clothes of a life lived on the streets. Despite that, her motions had the graceful and wild elegance of a burning torch. Five pins spun through the air, the ends all wreathed in fire. She had a modest group on onlookers and Tyrissa had to admit it was impressive, the rhythm of her hands catching the safe ends of the pins an enchanting sight. At her feet was torch held by a tripod, its tall and narrow flame leaping at her hands. Next to that sat a black hat, set upside down to receive donations. A metal tub filled with water completed the set.

  Rhythm. Every time the juggler caught a pin, Tyrissa could feel an ever-so-slight tug at the center of her chest, like her heartbeats were urging her forward. Her mind raced back to the firekin attack on the caravan. She had felt the same faint attraction towards the magick fueled creatures. Then she noticed that the juggler bore no burns on her hands. Everyone made mistakes, and in her profession mistakes left their mark. That is, unless you had an alternate understanding with fire. The girl was Pactbound.

  Tyrissa forced her attention back to the shifting crowds, ignoring the steady internal beat as the juggler worked her magick with each catch. Soon Van Delmor resumed his walk with a barely-there frown, leaving with the farmer placated but without a donation to nibble on. He paused in the middle of the street, and then approached the juggler, the show catching his eye.

  The beats grew stronger as they drew closer and Tyrissa felt that tell-tale chill grow in her fingertips and settle into her bones, a faint mirror of what she felt in the Vordeum Wastes. The juggler’s brow furrowed and the beats got stronger, the torch rising in intensity, the flames leaping higher to lick at her hands. Her once flowing movements started to waver and her eyes darted around the assembled crowd. She met Tyrissa’s gaze and all color drained from her face.

  She knows I’m causing it. It must be a disruption, as well as a general sense of magick.

  Her dismantling of that flamekin in the wastes was proof enough of that, but this was a second confirmation.

  One of the pins fell to the paving stones, sending the closest audience members jumping away. The juggler played it off by letting the remaining four pins fall into the water tub in a series of hissing splashes. The subsequent bow brought scattered applause, though her eyes never left Tyrissa for long.

  Van Delmor dropped a single gilder into the juggler’s hat and said to his retinue, “I’ve done enough for today. Let’s return.” As Tyrissa turned away to follow her charge back down Farmer’s Row, she gave the juggler a faint smile. It was meant to be friendly, reassuring, but instead the juggler froze in terror and remained nearly motionless until Tyrissa lost sight of her among the crowds of the market.

  Tyrissa studied the icy sensation in her hand as they exited the Harvest Market for sparser side streets on their way back to the Guildhall district. The chill only reached the wrist of her left hand. She flexed her fingers, noting how she felt cold only internally, as if the chill held a latent power that begged to be used. She wanted to use it. That, along with the naked fear the juggler showed, left her unsettled.

  She had let herself get caught up in a whirlwind of integrating into the city and training with the Cadre, allowing her focus to drift away from her real reason for being in Khalanheim: to figure out her Pact, find the so-called Pact Witch, and perhaps find a way out. Aside from a few visits to the library, she’d accomplished nothing toward that end. If anything, as she focused on the raw elemental cold in her fist, on that feeling of potential power, Tyrissa couldn’t say what she actually wanted anymore.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jesca pulled Tyrissa aside one afternoon in the guildhall with the promise of a more interesting new contract: an extended job providing security for a Felarin Trade Prince and his daughter.

  It was near sunset as their band of four walked along one of Heights’s curving streets that spiraled up the largest hill in the city. While styled like the rest of the city, here the rows of houses were set further back from the street and each entrance was fronted by ivy-draped stone walls enclosing private gardens. Looking up the hillside, one could see a distinct increase in size of the homes the closer they were to the summit, where a palace of gray stone stood above all, the former residence of Khalanheim’s discarded line of kings, now forever empty.

  Tyrissa was unfamiliar with one of their band, a brick shaped man named Grauss. His hair was a cap of black curls that reminded her of Anton and his mastodon handlers, though Grauss wasn’t nearly as talkative. However, Tyrissa had been thoroughly introduced to the other man in their group.

  “You’ve been avoiding me in the yard, Tyrissa,” Arveld said over his shoulder as they rounded another bend in the winding streets of Heights. “I still want that rematch.”

  “Oh don’t be silly,” she said with a devilish smile. “I’ve just been so busy with training and getting settled.” She knew she got lucky in the assessment and was certain she bruised his pride, even if Arveld shrugged it off.

  “Arveld, is there anything else we should know?” Jesca asked between glances at the briefing file in her hands. “You two were hired by Alvedo last year.”

  “Not much else to tell beyond what’s in the briefing. Master Alvedo’s family has a knack for side-stepping Southwest’s monopoly over Felarill and cutting deals with whomever he wishes here.”

  “Enough of a knack to create grudges?”

  Arveld shook his head. “I doubt it. What he does is hardly rare. He’s just better at it than most foreigners.”

  “What about the daughter?”

  “Master Alvedo dislikes the extra steps in the Khalan way of doing business. Olivianna will likely attend many of the social functions in his stead. A social surrogate and heir in training.”

  “This should be rather low impact,” Jesca said to Tyrissa. “Shows, market visits, parties, that sort of thing.”

  Jesca handed over the dossier and Tyrissa gave it another glance. She knew Felarill was a nation of
river lands and island chains to the southwest of the Khalan Federation. Aside from a handful of good pirate tales, the stories that she’d read from those lands glorified the interplay and subterfuge of Felarin noble houses and were seasoned with a healthy amount of passion and romance, the heroes often dashing sailors or clever courtiers. She didn’t count them among her favorites.

  Olivianna Alvedo’s schedule did indeed skew to the social side of things with a minority of drier meetings with this or that merchant of this or that guild in between. Much of it, including tomorrow, was a checkerboard of ‘To be determined’. The first highlight seemed to be next week’s ‘Prime Autumn Gala One’. That worryingly implied a second.

  “So is she hiring guards or temporary friends?”

  “In our case, it’ll be a little of both. It’s customary for foreign traders and diplomats to make visible use of locally hired services. It’s a way of saying ‘my coin will benefit many instead of few’. The Felarin in particular must put on a specific look while in Khalanheim since their nation still operates under the rule of a codified nobility. Bringing their full entourage here would be a massive social gaffe, you know?”

  “Sure.”

  “As for temporary friends… well, if we all get along it’ll just be that much more pleasant of a contract.”

  “So as long as I’m not standing watch over some insufferable tea party, how bad could it be?” Granted, Tyrissa had a narrow frame of reference with respect to Cadre contracts. Aside from the escort of Delmor at the Harvest Market, she had only been on training runs and a handful of dull night watches at some vault or another.

  Their destination was much like the other homes along the street save for the open garden gate. A guard dressed in all black with a pair of thin dueling swords at his hips waited for them. He would have been a fitting image of the typical Felarin bravo save for the exhaustion in his eyes. He exchanged a few words with Arveld and led their band into the pristinely manicured front garden before retreating into the house.

  As they waited Tyrissa came to the realization that for the past few months almost everything and everyone she encountered was not quite what she expected. She had begun to fear that she would be slightly wrong about everything. As their clients exited their rented home and introductions were made, Tyrissa was able to put that fear to rest.

  Ferdinand Alvedo was a slender man of at least fifty with piercing eyes and hair showing the beginnings of turning from a black to gray. He moved with a stiff, ingrained formality that extended to his black, well-cut clothes. His daughter stood to his right and was exactly what Tyrissa imagined. Olivianna Alvedo, wore a distinctly foreign blue dress with a wider skirt and lower neckline than the current Khalan styles. She was prim and pretty, with raven hair and high cheekbones that gave her face a haughty cast. She shared her father’s dark eyes that belied a sharp intelligence. Taken in full, she had every appearance of a glass vase that might take slightly more effort to break.

  As the most senior of their delegation, Arveld made the announcement, a formal introduction. “Master Alvedo, allow me to present the delegation of Kadrich’s Cadre. I am Arveld, and this is Grauss, van Rild, and Jorensen.” They each bowed as their names were called.

  “I welcome you into my service, sirs and madams.” He spoke in a crisp and clear voice, with only the slightest hint of a long-disciplined accent. “I am Ferdinand Alvedo of Gardula, and I present my daughter, Olivianna.” She gave their group a shallow curtsey.

  Father and daughter split to their respective new guardians. Olivianna swished over to Tyrissa and Jesca, face masked in a cool appraisal.

  “Miss Alvedo, I’m Jesca van Rild and this is Tyrissa Jorensen,” they gave slight respectful bows in unison, as discussed, the repetition a token reverence to the Felarill’s continued use courtly gestures and formalities. “We’ll be your escort during any business you have away from your father.”

  Their new client broke into a gracious smile and said, “Please, you may call me Olivianna. But always Olivianna. Every syllable. Every time. I cannot abide pet names.”

  Tyrissa couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at that. The Olivianna’s accent was far less schooled than her father’s and she leaned into her words with a distinct foreign purr at a refreshingly slower pace than the typical clipped Khalanheim accent. Tyrissa couldn’t begrudge Olivianna for that when she still got odd looks on a daily basis.

  “Of course, Olivianna,” Jesca said without hesitation. “How was your journey from Gardula?”

  “Smooth, aside from having to wait in Rilderdam for three days while they resolved some trouble with the canals. Such a dreary city, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Jesca’s smile tightened at that comment. “Rilderdam has its charms, but they may be difficult to find in such a short stay.”

  “Ah yes, the charms of the damp, muck, and swarms of flies. Delightful.”

  Olivianna looked up at Tyrissa and gave her a second, slow narrow-eyed appraisal, before frowning in obvious disappointment. Across the garden path, the three men had a good laugh in their friendlier reunion.

  “I have to say I’m a little surprised with the Cadre’s choice of guardians.”

  “I think I can handle your safety,” Tyrissa said. Then added, “Miss Alvedo.”

  “Well you’re certainly large enough. Where are you from? I don’t recognize your… drawl.”

  “Morgale. Miss Alvedo.” At this point, she could begrudge her as much as she wanted. Her accent wasn’t that bad, especially after a few weeks of practicing it down.

  “Ah. How rustic. Tyrissa, was it?”

  “You will call me Jorensen.” Their chance of being on a first name basis was quite gone.

  “Very well.”

  “Olivianna,” Jesca said, saving the introductions from becoming any frostier, “There is the matter of tomorrow.”

  “Of course. I’ve been in correspondence with a handful of my peers here in the city and I have reserved a table at the Countess’s Court tomorrow afternoon. Please look your best.” She gave Tyrissa one last half-glare. “If at all possible. I look forward to our time together. If you’ll excuse me ladies, I should retire for the evening.”

  “We can leave,” Jesca said in a low voice as Olivianna Alvedo swished her way back into the townhouse. “Functionally we’ll be two separate bands.”

  They retraced their route along the avenues of Heights back down to the Cadre’s guild hall, walking beneath the now-aglow night lamps. Aside from the rattle and grind of passing carriages, the streets were oddly quiet compared to the rest of the city at this hour. Tyrissa was equally silent, wondering if she did something wrong to offend their client. Then she noticed Jesca trying to hide a smile.

  “What happened back there?” Tyrissa asked.

  “I suppose I should have warned you about the Felarin fondness for playful clashes of mild insults.”

  “That was playful?” Tyrissa tried to image how they treat someone they actively disliked. At least that explained why Felarin stories had excessive amounts of wordplay in lieu of action.

  “They can come off as a little abrasive—”

  “Understatement.”

  “It’s how they feel out boundaries with each other, the testing of another’s will and wit. You did quite well. Insisting on her last name was a nice touch. Try not to take it personally.”

  “Easy for you to say, she was nothing but smiles and honey towards you.”

  “Not entirely. I’m from Rilderdam after all and the autumn is the nicest time of year there. It’s hardly a swamp.”

  Tyrissa still felt like it went poorly. Hopefully tomorrow would be less venomous.

  “Jesca, what is the Countess’s Court?”

  “It’s one of the best tea houses in the city. Should be a lovely afternoon.”

  Tyrissa groaned. Night watches at storage vaults were looking more attractive by the minute.

  “No complaining! I should probably fill you in on an additional facet of this cont
ract…”

  Tyrissa swept her gaze over the main floor of the Countess’s Court for what may as well have been the hundredth time. Warm afternoon sunlight filtered through the thick panes of the skylights, scattering small prisms across a grid of tables cloaked in white cloth. About half of the tables were occupied and the clientele consisted exclusively of fashionably dressed women of all ages. The sum total of their politely hushed conversations resulted in a pleasant, unintelligible din sprinkled with the clink of cups against saucers and the rustle of cloth. Some tables were deep in games of daajik, the victor of a round rising above the ambient noise of the tea house when she triumphantly read out her winning hand. The air was heavy with fragrant herbal scents, and the uniformed wait staff buzzed about the floor with practiced efficiency and attentiveness.

  All in all, it was the nicest tea house Tyrissa had ever seen, even if it had a thorough monopoly in that regard. She wasn’t alone in keeping watch over nothing. There were a number of other hired guards here that lent a subtext of suspicion to the room, even if those seated at the tables didn’t care to notice it.

  To her credit, Olivianna Alvedo had managed to create a miniature court on her first full day in the city, complete with house guard and handmaiden. Jesca sat at the table and her ‘additional facet of this contract’ seemed to be a dress. This was a trial run of an incognito bodyguard paired with an obvious one. Jesca explained it as making their services more presentable and even more invisible. Tyrissa wasn’t completely sold on the idea, even if Jesca’s transformation was quite convincing, the scrapper disappearing into a courtier. For all the passion she showed toward the Cadre and the life of a modern mercenary, she certainly had a knack for switching into a more refined persona in a heartbeat.

  For the afternoon Jesca was now Joyce d’Haute of Rilderdam, the choice of her actual hometown a response to Olivianna’s slights last night. Their client took to the idea instantly, and the two of them concocted and refined a reasonable backstory in the carriage ride to the tea house.