“Keep an eye out,” Tyvian said, leading them through the alleys. This proved to be unnecessary—a lot had changed in the past few years, including the company he kept. Artus was more dangerous than anybody they were likely to bump into in a dark Freegate alley. If the Phantom Guild came calling, they’d be the losers of that exchange.
Or at least Tyvian richly hoped so.
Carlo maintained his same offices with the same private fountain out front. This time, though, he hadn’t even made it to the little blue door before it popped open. Beyond squatted the old Verisi pirate, looking not a day older, waving them in with hasty gestures. “Quick. Quickly, if you value your stinking hides, you rogues!”
Tyvian smiled and went in. Eddereon, Artus, and Voth entered with proportionally diminishing levels of enthusiasm.
Carlo waved them through a beaded curtain and into his parlor. He squatted on a cushion and removed his crystal eye to dust it off. “Please, sit.”
There were cushions for each of them. Artus and Voth remained standing.
Carlo frowned at them and then looked at Tyvian. “Tough crowd, eh?”
“Were you surprised to learn I was alive?” Tyvian asked, making a show of searching Carlo’s face for any clue to the old rumormonger’s comportment. He needn’t have bothered—he could tell nothing. Carlo’s face was as inscrutable as the ocean depths. He hasn’t lost a step—good.
Carlo popped his crystal eye back in its socket. “Each time I receive word that you are dead, you appear on my doorstep within the year. This is a strange coincidence, is it not? Am I some kind of ferryman to the underworld or something?”
Tyvian grinned. “Don’t flatter yourself, Carlo. I only visit you when I’m dead because, when alive, I have so many more interesting friends to call upon.”
“Ho, ho!” Carlo laughed, his big belly shaking. “It’s to be that kind of visit, eh?”
“Tyvian,” Artus said, arms folded, “we’re in a rush. Can we move it along?”
Carlo looked up at him. “Well, you’ve certainly grown. I think I liked you better as a grasshopper. Easier to squash underfoot, eh?”
Artus rolled his eyes.
Carlo scanned Voth next. His eyes widened. “Hann’s Boots, Tyvian—have you brought Adatha bloody Voth into my home?”
“Of course I did. You knew it—you saw her from a mile away, and don’t deny it.” Tyvian laughed. “Gods, old man, I’ve missed you. I really truly have.”
Carlo looked momentarily taken aback. “So . . . you have gone soft.”
“Tyvian . . .” Artus grumbled.
Tyvian waved him away. “We can’t stay—”
“I should say not! Else I’d have to stuff you in sacks and turn you over to Sahand at first light.”
“The price on my head is that high?”
“Your head?” Carlo laughed. “Your head is priceless at the moment, since everybody thinks it’s at the bottom of a big damned lake. But his head,” he pointed at Artus, “is worth a hundred times its weight in gold in the court of Banric Sahand.” Then he waved his hand at Eddereon and Voth. “And these two I could probably sell to that platinum-toothed brute Rodall Gern for a tidy sum.”
Voth made for the door. “I can’t believe I agreed to this. I’m leaving—”
“Far be it from me to hinder the departure of an assassin from my presence,” Carlo said, “but I should note that you are walking about freely in my city because you are Master Reldamar’s guests. I wouldn’t suggest walking about alone.”
Voth froze at the beaded curtain. “I don’t take well to threats.”
“And you have no goddamned idea who you’re dealing with.” Carlo pointed at the tufted cushion to his left. “Sit and mind your manners, girly, or I’m likely to get offended.”
“Girly? Why you ugly, fat—”
Tyvian turned to her. “Adatha—please. This will only take a moment. Artus, you too.”
Voth and Artus reluctantly sank into their cushions. Voth looked ready to bite Carlo. Artus looked like he wanted to punch him. Tyvian decided to take that as a victory and moved on. “We need supplies for a trip through the mountains.”
“Trying to avoid bumping into the armies of Saldor and Dellor, eh? Wise,” Carlo said.
“How much?”
Carlo shrugged. “That depends on what else you need. Don’t give me that look—you didn’t walk in here because you needed salt pork and crampons. You’re looking for information, too. What kind?”
Eddereon leaned forward. “Is Lyrelle Reldamar still alive?”
“And Michelle Orly—is she? Where is Sahand keeping her?” Artus blurted out.
Carlo gave Tyvian an unreadable look and then, when no one asked anything else, he held up three fingers. “Three secrets and supplies for a mountain journey in exchange for . . . what?”
“Word that I’m still alive and coming for Michelle!” Artus blurted.
Carlo snorted. “Everybody knows that. Worthless.”
“The story of how Xahlven Reldamar crashed the Saldorian Exchange!” Eddereon offered.
Carlo shuddered. “I’ll pretend I never heard that.”
Artus blinked. “Why? It’s true! I was there!”
Carlo held up two fingers. “First: nobody would believe me. Second: I’d be found dead the next day, apparently by my own hand. No thank you.”
Tyvian smiled. “Can we stop with this ridiculous haggling? I know what you want, Carlo. You know what you want. Just ask.”
Carlo smiled back. “Fine—cut through all the fun. Here’s what I want: I want to know how you faked your own death, I want to know why, and I want to know what you plan to do next.”
Tyvian nodded. “Would you like the true version or the fun version?”
“Both. But let’s start with the fun one. It is too early in the evening to muddle about with truths.”
Tyvian nodded. “Done. First, your end.”
Carlo nodded. “Lyrelle Reldamar is alive, or last I heard. She is being kept in a tower of the Citadel of Dellor inside a series of Astral wards of prodigious complexity. The Lady Michelle is likewise alive. She is not being kept in the dungeon, though—she also got herself a cold and drafty tower for a prison. Sahand is a poetic fellow, I’ll give him that.”
“That’s it?” Artus said, shaking his head.
“Not satisfied? What a surprise—you remind me of another sixteen-year-old bravo too big for his britches. Wonder what ever happened to that boy.” Carlo gave Tyvian a wink. “Fine, here’s a bonus: in a fortnight, give or take, Banric Sahand intends to marry the Lady Michelle, thus giving him a legitimate claim to Eretherian nobility.”
Artus bolted up out of his cushion. “What! What! That’s impossible! Michelle would never agree!”
Carlo favored Artus with a wicked grin. “My dear boy, do you honestly think her consent is something Sahand cares about? No, I daresay he’ll get her to sign whatever paper he passed under her nose if she is in any way interested in keeping all her extremities.”
“Why you vicious little—” Artus moved as though to charge Carlo, but came up short as a squat little silver-studded rod emerged from one sleeve. A deathcaster.
A very familiar looking deathcaster.
Carlo motioned for Artus to sit. “Manners, Prince Artus. Manners. I don’t mind if you don’t like the news, but you won’t be throttling the messenger.”
Tyvian glared at Carlo. “That’s my deathcaster, Carlo.”
“It most certainly is not. The owner, I have on good authority, is dead.” The deathcaster vanished up one sleeve. “Now, please explain to me how I’m wrong.”
Artus was examining his knuckles. They were battered and bruised and scraped. “What about the army heading north? The army of Saldor—I never saw so many Defenders in one place. They’ll destroy Sahand, won’t they? He must have lost practically his whole army at Ayventry. Right?”
“Those are secrets you haven’t paid for,” Carlo said. Then, to Tyvian: “Now, story. Out wi
th it.”
Tyvian nodded. “Call for some tea first, Carlo. This will take a while.”
Late that evening, Tyvian shared a bottle of wine with Carlo on his rooftop garden, just as he had so many times before in his life before the ring. It had once been a riot of colorful blossoms and green vines winding around the wrought-iron railings. Now, few plants remained beneath the incessant rain of dust and the perpetual twilight of the city. Carlo was apologetic. “I have to have a servant come up here and dust everything off twice a day, or it will build up. Gods, Tyvian, you should see some of the alleys in the Blocks—impassable. The city watch digs dead vagabonds out from under hills of silt at least once a week.”
Tyvian sipped the wine and closed his eyes. It was good—sweet Hann, it was a fine vintage. Carlo had broken out the good stuff, indeed. It was the first glass he’d had in months, and the last one he’d have in months more. In the courtyard below, he could hear Eddereon and Artus discussing how to stow and carry the equipment Carlo had produced in only a matter of hours. Noting Tyvian’s raised eyebrow, the old pirate had sighed. “Things are cheaper now in Freegate. All that costs less than you can imagine.”
Carlo was looking him over with his crystal eye, paying particular attention to Tyvian’s right hand. “That trinket really can bring back the dead, eh?”
Tyvian nodded. “Three times now—twice myself, once somebody else.”
“Do you think it’s changed you?”
Tyvian looked at him. “Do I seem changed?”
“You seem older. You seem like you’ve learned a few things the hard way.” Carlo swirled the wine in his glass. “Magic rings aren’t required for that, though—believe me.”
Tyvian watched the Pyre burn, swirling and angry. He remembered the heat of the ritual chamber, the rage-blind madness of Sahand’s eyes. “If not for the ring, that wouldn’t be there.”
“As I understand the story, if not for that ring, none of this would be here, either.” Carlo motioned to the city spread out around them. “You saved countless lives. In some circles that is admired.”
Tyvian felt a grin tug at the corner of his mouth. “And in your circles?”
“I try very hard not to admire anyone. It simply sets you up for disappointment.”
In the orange light, Tyvian could see the wrinkles spreading from the corners of Carlo’s eyes and lips, could see the many furrows of his forehead. He’d known the man twenty years, first as mentor, then as partner, then as friend. If he admired anyone, it was Carlo—a fixture, the immortal criminal overlord, untouched by time. Tyvian had, in a way, sought to be just like the man—free to live as he chose, do as he wished. But in the angry glow of the Freegate sky, he could now see Carlo was an old man and alone. A man who had to give up an eye so he could constantly be looking behind him.
Tyvian realized he had changed. He didn’t admire Carlo as he once did. He no longer wanted to be him. But he couldn’t remain what he was, either—it cost too much.
“Carlo, do you think I was ever a good person?” he asked, sipping the wine.
The old pirate smiled. “I think about that a great deal, you know. When I found you, I thought I’d found a vicious little rich boy smart enough to be of some use. I was right, too. I set about teaching you to be a coldhearted killer, like me.”
“I remember the lessons.”
“That’s funny, because they never really took. You were always finding ways not to kill people. Embarrass them, yes, injure them perhaps, but you were never bloodthirsty, never needlessly cruel. You were always a better con man than a killer.”
“Killing is messy and expensive. Lies are cheap and clean.”
Carlo waved away the words with a chuckle. “Tyvian, I don’t claim to know much about good or evil—I’ve seldom encountered either in my line of work. Everyone is somewhere in-between what they ought to be and what they know they shouldn’t be. My father wanted me to be a soldier, I really ought to have been a jeweler, and I wound up a fat old thief with one eye. So it goes.”
“This isn’t precisely answering my question, you know,” Tyvian said.
“My point is, boy, that a man can drive himself crazy wondering whether he’s good or bad. Is it his actions that do it? His intent? The results of his actions, intended or otherwise? Is it something in his soul that only Hann can see? Pick a method for weighing a man’s worth and I’ll find you a dozen exceptions in an afternoon and cart them in to shake your hand.”
Tyvian grimaced. This wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but he really didn’t know what would have pleased him more. He sat there, stewing, letting the dust collect in his beard.
“I know what you’re getting at, you know,” Carlo said, leaning forward. “You want to know what will happen when you rip that ring off your finger.”
Tyvian tried to keep his face calm, but he couldn’t help staring at Carlo. “That’s taking a few leaps, isn’t it?”
Carlo held up his hands. “Fine—have it your way—perhaps you called me on a stolen sending stone to ask for directions to the Oracle of the Vale for nothing. Idle curiosity—sure.” Carlo laughed and sighed. “I’ll tell you this, though: with or without that ring, you are a better person than I’ve ever been. I sometimes curse myself for ruining you and wonder if everything wouldn’t have been better if I just left you where I found you in that run-down brothel in Crosstown. But then I figure there would have been another unscrupulous sort who would have snapped you up, and then he would be richer than the Baron of Veris and not myself. You hate what that ring has made you do? Fine—I can’t blame you. Go up into the mountains and chat with the Oracle about it until you both have a good cry. But don’t think that ring makes you who you are. Life isn’t that simple.”
“Tyvian!” Artus called up from the courtyard. “We’re ready!”
Tyvian turned back to Carlo and extended his hand.
Carlo took it and shook. “The map is in your shirt pocket. I should warn you: when Captain Rodall Gern comes snooping around Freegate, I’m going to sell him a copy of the same map.”
“I expected no less.” Tyvian nodded and tapped his shirt to find an old bundle of parchment.
Carlo pointed at the map. “If you can beat that steel-toothed dog to a suspension bridge I’ve marked for you, you can cut it and he’ll never catch up.”
Tyvian smiled. “What do I owe you for that?”
“Nothing.” Carlo spread his hands. “This is a debt that Rodall Gern owes me, and if he winds up freezing to death in the mountains, our accounts will be squared.”
Tyvian’s smile faded as he thought about where he was going—a place out of legend. Something from a story. “Carlo . . . the Oracle . . . have you ever been? Can you tell me what to expect?”
“My dear Reldamar, those are secrets you have not paid for.” Carlo pulled him into a fleshy hug. “When this is all over, come back. We can start over, you and I. We can rebuild a life for you—Tyvian Reldamar does not need to live like a vagabond.”
Tyvian found himself hugging him back. “I’ll do that, Carlo. I promise. Take care of yourself.”
Carlo released him and dabbed at the corner of his real eye with a voluminous sleeve. “Nobody does it better, my friend. Good-bye.”
Chapter 27
Into the Mountains
The Dragonspine—the mountainous continental divide that separated the West from the vast plains of the North—was widely considered impassable. Its jagged peaks were so high that travelers couldn’t breathe their rarified air, its cliffs and valleys were so sheer as to give even a sorcerously assisted climber pause, and its weather was cold enough to freeze hearthcider. When you combined all this with an indigenous population of trolls, griffons, and mountain lions, just about no one had any interest in exploring the range’s secrets.
Except smugglers and thieves, of course. This was where Carlo diCarlo had come in, and why Artus had spent the past week walking along mountain trails so narrow, he could scarcely put two feet on them at the
same time. A trip through the Dragonspine on the right trails through the right passes would, according to Tyvian, cut a week off their journey north to Dellor.
Or so he claimed, anyway.
Artus stumbled, his heart pounding in his chest. This far up in the mountains, he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. He felt like he was drowning in the air.
Eddereon grabbed his hand and helped him up. “Watch your step, Artus—it’s a long way down.”
They were hiking along a ridge, perhaps seven or eight feet wide. On either side dropped a cliff of gray stone at a near-vertical angle that disappeared into a bank of fog beneath them. The thought of tumbling down it made him dizzy. “Tyvian better be sure about this.”
Eddereon looked at Tyvian, who was at the head of their little company, head down, his walking stick tapping against the rocks as he went. “Carlo gave him a map and we’re following it. I think he’s right—we’re making good time, and we’re avoiding the armies marching through the valley below.”
Artus picked up his walking stick. “I don’t like it. He’s up to something. He’s not telling us enough.”
“It’s not that he isn’t telling us,” Eddereon said, gesturing for Artus to go first. “It’s that he isn’t telling her.”
He pointed at Voth, who was stumbling along behind Tyvian, her face pale and her expression pinched beneath a heavy woolen hood. It seemed as though her ring hadn’t stopped torturing her since the moment she’d put it on. It was as though the assassin had dark thoughts and urges every hour of every day. The very idea chilled Artus more than the icy mountain breeze.
Of the four people winding their way through the lower peaks of the Dragonspine, Artus was keenly aware that he was the only one with complete freedom of action. Their rings compelled the other three, and Artus was beginning to realize what kinds of problems that created. Chief among these was Adatha Voth—Tyvian refused to abandon her, Eddereon refused to kill her, and yet, even with the ring twisting her right hand into a palsied claw, she refused to submit to their company. Artus could see the murder in her eyes as clear as daylight—she was a caged tiger, just waiting for the moment the latch was sprung. No amount of pointing this out to Eddereon or Tyvian in private had made any difference, though. They kept her along—they had no choice.
The Far Far Better Thing Page 27
