Shadowrun - [Earthdawn 05] - Shroud of Madness

by Carl Sargent, Marc Gascoigne (v0. 9) (epub)

  Jerenn looked as if a death sentence had been passed on him. Cassian was shocked when the lad suddenly threw himself at his feet, his body wracked with sobs.

  "Sir, please, my master will have me killed."

  "Get up, lad." Cassian said, his tone not unkind. Whatever you tell me will not be repeated to your master. It is simply that I required your service last night and you were not here. I am owed an explanation and I will have one."

  The boy got to his knees, but would not look at him. At length, after regaining some measure of composure, he managed to speak his piece. "There's an old woman, sir. Beyond the walls. I bring her food and keep an eye out for her, sir."

  Afterwards, when he thought of it, Cassian speculated that what he experienced upon hearing those words at that moment must have been a lingering of his deep reverie of the night before. It felt like a shaft of hurt in his heart, a powerful empathy with the youth. He felt slightly shaky for an instant.

  "You are an orphan." It was a statement, and hardly unlikely for a slave boy. What Cassian knew and didn't say was that the boy's upbringing had probably been worse than just being orphaned. He knew within what the old woman meant to the boy.

  "Yes, sir." The boy's gaze was still directed at the floor. He looked like some wretchedly defeated prisoner of battle. Suddenly, a gold coin was spinning on the stone before him, flicked by the elf.

  "Then take her some food tonight, and perhaps a scarf from the markets, or something to keep her warm against the winter that is coming," Cassian said gently. "But if you plan further visits I would rather know in advance, in case I need you here. I doubt your friend needs constant attention."

  Jerenn looked up at him with wondering eyes. He had sometimes gotten a scrap of silver for doing his work well, but that was rare good fortune and far better than most slaves he knew; and he counted himself very lucky for that. To be given gold for wrongdoing was extraordinary.

  A confusion of powerful feelings welled up in him. He was intensely relieved; still frightened and excited by what he'd heard the night before; and an old yearning came over him also. He knew that, whatever it was that this Theran did, it took him to many distant and strange lands. Jerenn longed to do the same, and though the gulfs of race and many decades of life separated them he felt an intense longing to be with the elf, to travel as his servant and companion, to be his eyes and ears in places where Cassian could not go. It was all too much for him, and he sat mute and half-dazed.

  'There's a place called—Culpam's, is it? A herbalist by trade, I believe. It was among the useful places around the Quarter that I had listed for me, should I need it. You had better take yourself there and get something for that cold. If you take the right curative quickly enough and sleep this afternoon, you may get off without a fever and save yourself three or four days of sickness. You'll be no use to me sickly and feverish."

  "Yes, sir. I'll go at once, sir," Jerenn said quickly, scrambling to his feet. Grateful as he was, he wanted to get away, to examine what he felt.

  "And stop calling me 'sir'! How many times must I tell you?" Cassian called out after the figure disappearing down the corridor. The shouted reply of "yes, sir" was exactly what he expected. He grinned, and began to soap his face.

  12

  "I can assure you again, Master Haughrald, that I have absolutely no suspicions about you whatsoever. Quite the contrary. From everything I've seen I would say you are a most loyal servant to this city and the Empire. If I have heard otherwise in some quarters, and powerful ones at that, I can assure you that in my judgment those views are mistaken and the result of prejudice. I have discounted them."

  It had been quite an effort to put the agitated old dwarf at ease. Cassian's second visit to inspect the recordkeeping of the artisans had aroused the architect's fears anew. What made matters worse was that Cassian could not be open about what he was looking for. He knew from Daralec's secret ledgers, the ones taken from Crielle's room, that there was a hidden partner with whom the stone merchant had been in covert alliance. Without doubt, some whiff of corruption or scandal had likely been associated with that partnership. Haughrald's records just might provide some clue to who that secret partner had been, but Cassian certainly did not want Haughrald to know that. From the dwarf's point of view, a second visit from an investigator sent all the way from Thera—this time not saying what it was he was looking for—was obviously an ominous sign.

  Cassian was unable to find any help in Haughrald's records. There was only one possibility left.

  "There has been a most unfortunate accident, Haughrald. Daralec's son fell and struck his head last night, and drowned in a pool. So, you see, stone supplies will have to come from some other source in the future."

  The dwarf looked apprehensive, scratching at his beard. "Goodness, I don't know. House Carinci has always had a monopoly on supply. They own the mines at Balkaria, you see, where the good stone comes from. I don't have any hand in that, that's their affair. But you might try talking to K'keelifa."

  "And who is he?"

  "He's the master of the Carinci aropagoi."

  "Of course. Well, thank you. I don't think I shall need to trouble you again," the elf said sunnily. Dealing with the t'skrang would call for a wholly different diplomatic approach. K'keelifa would be the admiral of the fleet that shipped the stone downriver, of course; it wasn't surprising that he had taken the title of admiral, though it was unlikely he was actually a soldier. It was a standard affectation of the boastful t'skrang in the further reaches of the Empire.

  "I think you may even catch him if you move quickly," the dwarf said helpfully. No doubt he'll be glad to see the back of me, Cassian thought. I would, if I were him. "He's down at the niall now, but due to sail upriver to the mines at noon. If you don't catch him now, he may be gone until feast day. Those t'skrang like to live it up for days at a time before then, you know."

  "Yes, I know," Cassian said. If the t'skrang were winding themselves up for a long celebration, all-out flattery would be called for, but the reptile-folk were not at their most diplomatic at feast times and should be fairly easy to interrogate. Oh, well, the elf mused. Yesterday I had to drink myself silly with a boisterous ork general. I'm sure that, today, I can handle some boisterous t'skrang.

  As he walked past the markets to the river dwellings of the t'skrang, he never saw Jerenn haggling happily with the one-eyed woman, examining the mittens and complaining that the wool was too rough and no one in their right mind could possibly charge that much for them, and he was a poor child who would suffer numbing from the winter cold and how could she seek to cheat him so, didn't she have children of her own and what with him being a poor orphan and everything. . .By the time the woman had sighed and given in, Cassian was already gazing at the spires rising out of the Flamewalk. They had an iridescent quality to them, as if glazed with liquid mother-of-pearl that had run down over them in some fabulous rain of jewels and colors from the heavens. In the sunlight, they resembled the fins or claws of some great river creature, static and solid, enduring and eternal. His admiration did not go unremarked.

  "Fine, aren't they? Have we not built something wondrous here?" a nearby t'skrang said proudly.

  "They are as fine as any I have seen along the thousands of miles of the Indris," Cassian assured him, "and they are spoken of everywhere among the t'skrang, are they not?"

  The t'skrang puffed himself up to his full height, his bright crimson and yellow garments shining as brightly as he seemed to do. "Really?"

  "I am not exaggerating, I assure you," Cassian told him, the white lie gliding from his lips. "And there they have certain advantages, after all. The shell of the kalivan-ti, for one thing. It is a huge beast, able to sink a river vessel with its vast beak alone, but it can be killed and the shell treated with certain acids and unguents the Indrisans keep secret among themselves. It can be made malleable and crafted into shapes, and they use that for their constructions. This"—Cassian gestured across the muddied waters�
�"reminds me of their work, most definitely. I wonder whether you do not have cousins or families in Indrisa?"

  It was a clever ploy. The speech complimented the t'skrang, and had a subtly conspiratorial quality to it. A t'skrang would be proud of such connections if he had them, and though he would not speak of them to other races, he would be pleased at someone being perceptive and intelligent enough to notice the quality of their craftsmanship and wonder about such a relationship. Such a query also revealed that the speaker was knowledgeable of t'skrang ways, something else pleasing to the race. Cassian's reward was a sudden tail slap, a sure sign the t'skrang was in a good mood.

  From here on, it should be clear sailing, Cassian thought, and then smiled at the unintentional pun. This t'skrang mood must be infectious.

  By the time he was admitted to the presence of the Admiral—and being allowed to board his ship felt like an audience with royalty—Cassian had been careful to acquaint himself with all the affiliations of the t'skrang. K'keelifa was of House Carinci, and a member of the k'kandri family of that Imperial House; and then again, of the trading House of Stone and Water. It would not do for Cassian to be uninformed about any of those matters. No blunder of etiquette would be acceptable here.

  The t'skrang was a resplendent sight. His skin was mottled green and yellow, sleek and healthy, his head crest curled and wavy and close to his skull, his body clad in garments of green, light blue, and creamy yellow. He wore little in the way of adornment, but the white metal arm bracers and mastrylith-skin belt were of exquisite craftsmanship. Expecting as much, Cassian had come in his simple blue robes, allowing the t'skrang's apparel to shine in comparison. It would not do to be more resplendent than the t'skrang on his own ship, but Cassian's garments, too, were exceedingly well made. It would also not do to come wearing humble clothes, for that would have been equally insulting.

  "You must be as proud of your vessel as any Admiral," Cassian said smoothly, "but I can say that I have very rarely seen one so clean and well cared-for, especially considering the arduous nature of your work. Your crew must clean away more dust in a week than some people do in a year."

  "Most clever and perceptive of you," K'keelifa said smartly. "You praise all t'skrang on our pride in our ships, and you compliment me on what is, indeed, the best feature of my own. You flatter me with care and forethought. Thank you."

  "It is only flattery if not true," Cassian said smoothly.

  "Yes, well, enough of that," the t'skrang replied. "I intend to sail fairly soon, and I will be as helpful to you as I may. I am only a humble river admiral and I have little idea what might bring a praetor to my ship."

  Cassian smiled. Humble admiral indeed! He has a sense of humor, this one. He might even be poking fun at himself, but I had best be sure not to do so. He's probably testing me out on that score.

  "You must forgive me if my presumption is incorrect, but perhaps you have heard the news of Crielle's accident. I do not know how swiftly news travels in Vivane."

  "That I have." K'keelifa wasn't giving anything away.

  He sat back in his rich, redwood chair, hands clasped around one knee, staring intently at the elf.

  "I must take you into my confidence here," Cassian said quietly. "A praetor must concern himself with the security of any city that he visits. Clearly, supplies of stone for repair and maintenance are important for such security. I had hoped that you might be able to inform me how supplies of that stone will be now secured. Who will take the role Crielle would have inherited from his father?

  "I might add," he said gently, "that it would be most helpful, and something that will not go unmentioned in any report I must provide, if you would keep this conversation confidential during your well-earned celebrations prior to Kypros's coming feast day."

  K'keelifa smiled slowly. He does not feel insulted, Cassian thought with relief. T'skrang talk freely, and I have asked him not do so.

  "Well, praetor Cassian, you may be surprised by this, but I do not know how such supplies will be obtained. You will have to ascertain this from the provisions of Daralec's will. If there is no such document, then a conclave of House Carinci will decide the question. That will not be undertaken until after the feasting, of course."

  "Would you consider expressing any views on who such a conclave might decide is most likely, or most fit, to take over the business? Assuming, just for the moment, that no will exists? Or that, if it does, gives no such specification?"

  K'keelifa almost laughed. His tail swished, almost slapping on the timbers. Cassian knew enough of tail etiquette to know the t'skrang was not angry or upset.

  "You speak like a scribe, Cassian. The answer is, again, that I do not know. There is no obvious candidate. House Carinci has dealt with this trade but thirty years and in that time Daralec has always had all rights in the matter. Such was the agreed division of trade."

  But thirty years. . .For a moment Cassian had the awful feeling he would have to trouble poor Haughrald again, then thought better of it. No, he would try the House of Records first. If possible, he would spare the dwarf a third visit.

  He got to his feet and nodded, half a bow as protocol demanded, to the wryly smiling admiral.

  "I am most grateful for your openness, Admiral. If only I could count on it from everyone with whom I must deal," he said warmly.

  "Thank you. Now be off with you," K'keelifa said tartly. "You've been on my ship long enough. Some of my crew are superstitious about having elves on board, you know." The t'skrang laughed and slapped his tail cheerfully as he got up to follow Cassian through the cabin doorway.

  When Cassian and Jerenn crossed paths a second time that day, this time Cassian saw the boy. He was carrying a string-bound bundle of clothes, the curves of wool straining at their bindings as he scurried up the broad roadway in the direction of the Rose Villa. The elf smiled, and continued east toward the House of Records.

  During his first hour there Cassian turned up even more than he'd hoped for. Daralec had come to Vivane thirty-one years past, from Marac. Within a year, an agreement had been sealed at a grand House conclave ceding rights to Carinci for importing stone. Gaining access to the minutes of the conclave was something akin to trying to catch a greased piglet, but Cassian finally imposed rank on the scribe, who then grudgingly produced the bound and buckled book, standing by him to make sure the elf read only the pages he had requested and been made to sign for. Prior to that time, House Narlanth, in the person of one Horlanth, had enjoyed the rights.

  Cassian was mildly surprised. Narlanth was no trading House, and it must have been an odd state of affairs initially for one of their number to be granted such rights. Further trawling of documents uncovered the existence of a very long-standing agreement, one signed and sealed long before the Scourge. Cassian knew it was also unusual for Narlanth to provide military engineers, but that's what Dragold was. Perhaps the scions of that House are more versatile here than most other places, he mused.

  His attention stimulated by this slightly surprising find, he examined records of births and deaths for some basic information on Horlanth. He discovered that his death occurred within a year of Daralec's arrival in Vivane, and the cause of death was given as failure of the heart following a fever. Horlanth was thirty-six years old when he died. Rather young for the kind of death that usually came to the old, Cassian thought, troubled now. Looking through the registers for the year, he found no evidence of an epidemic of fever at the time. That troubled him further.

  "I require access to the will of Daralec of House Carinci," he told the disgruntled scribe. "I also require access to all documents lodged with the House of Records by Daralec in the previous ten years."

  It was preposterous, and Cassian knew he had absolutely no reason for the latter request. He simply disliked the officious scribe and had decided to give him a bad time. The will was the usual affair; minor bequests, the normal endowment of the only son, with the normal stipulations about pre-deceasment and the rights of his wi
fe. There was absolutely no mention of the trading rights whatsoever.

  "Thank you for your help," he said to the wearied clerk, finally taking pity on him after putting him through what had been needless effort. He handed the man a coin of gold, genuinely remorseful now. Cassian knew his only excuse for making him carry great burdens of documents was a temporary lapse into meanness of spirit. The man looked grateful, and too tired to be resentful.

  "Let me just confirm something for myself. No document can carry legal weight unless it is lodged here?"

  "Oh no, sir, that is not so."

  Cassian was stunned. This was a clear violation of Imperial law, surely He'd only asked the question out of a desire to say something at all to the poor man before he left. In fact, he'd considered it a pointless query, having said the first thing that came to mind. Now he wondered whether the hours of poring over points of legal detail might not have stimulated his awareness as much as any deep reverie.

  "If a document is written here, witnessed by two members of the conclave of Houses, and an oath of agreement is sworn before a judge, then that is also sufficient."

  "That is not Imperial law," Cassian said ominously. "Most peculiar. Not that any responsibility attaches to you, of course," he hurried to reassure the scribe, who was now looking very anxious. "Well, thank you doubly."

  Cassian was already on his way out when something else pricked at his mind. He hurried back to the register of births and deaths, and the name that leaped out at him made him beam with delight. Here, surely, was something.

  Born, fifty-five years past, a son to Horlanth of House Narlanth; an only child. Named Ziraldesh.

  Within ten minutes he had discovered the very interesting absence of a certain person from Vivane, which intrigued him even more.

  13

  The villa was a small one, shrouded by shrubbery and small trees, hiding behind its browning cloak of leaves. Unswept scurries of gold, red, and brown leaves skipped over the lawn like waves in the gentle breeze as Cassian walked up to the front door. A servant arrived promptly to meet him, and led him into a small reception room to await his probably unwilling host.