by Darian Smith
Brannon massaged his temples. “Blood and Tears. So that's what the bickering between you two is about.”
Draeson frowned. “That's not entirely—”
The sound of broken glass and a scream cut off whatever else he'd intended to say.
The men ran to the other room. The large office contained a bookcase, a painting of the goddess Ahpra crying into the river Tilal on the adjacent wall, and a desk below a newly broken window. Under the painting was a small table holding a vase of sunflowers. Natilia was crouched down beside it, making herself as small as possible. She pointed to the desk under the broken window, where an arrow stuck out of a sheaf of papers on the desk like a feathered pitchfork in a haystack of fire. Flames licked over the papers on her desk, rising higher with every moment.
“Somebody's shooting arrows at me!” the harbor master shrieked. “Who does that?”
Brannon grabbed the flower vase and upended it over the flames. Keeping close to the wall, he edged around the desk and the shards of glass on the floor to peek out through the broken window. The docks were empty, but there was a small crowd gathered at the far end where the streets led into the city, come to gawk at the crashed and frozen ship. None of them were even looking toward the harbor master's office building.
He looked up, but the angle gave him no view of the roof of the warehouse next door. He swore under his breath. “They're gone.”
He surveyed the room. Taran pulled daggers from somewhere on his person and faced the external door, guarding in case of an attack from behind. Draeson, still unsteady on his feet, leaned against the doorframe. Darnec crouched beside his ex-girlfriend and helped her up.
“Who was it?” the woman demanded of Brannon. “Did you see?”
He shook his head. “I'm sorry.”
Draeson cleared his throat. “I think Natilia can stand without your help now, Darnec.”
Darnec ignored him. “Could this be a threat? Is Nat in danger?”
“I doubt it's a personal threat given everything that's happened today.” Brannon poked at the damp ashes. “What did you have on your desk, Natilia? Is there something worth destroying?”
She moved away from Darnec and shook her head. “Just my records. Docking forms, schedules, stuff like that.” She stepped into Draeson's embrace and the mage's expression took on a shade of smugness.
“Would that include the coded communications we talked about?” Brannon asked.
Natilia paled. “Yes. All of it was on the desk. Ahpra's Tears, I'm so sorry.”
Brannon sighed. “Of course it was. So definitely not a coincidence then.” He stared at the charred mess of burned paper and soggy sunflowers. So far, the thieves had been ahead of them at every turn. They'd planned carefully and executed that plan perfectly, as far as he could tell. They had the gold and they'd destroyed the evidence—both in the minds of sailors and the paperwork. The charred arrow shaft stuck up out of the ash. Ash that, in some places, still held together like the ghost of a page;crisp, black, and fragile. It was all that was left. He took a deep breath. “Okay. Let's make do with what we have.”
“Which is?” Draeson snorted.
Brannon gestured to the desk. “The arrow. It's not army issue. We'll check with local fletchers and see if it was made here.” He pointed at his apprentice. “Darnec, I want you to take the next ship back up the river and trace the journey the shipment took. They've destroyed the paperwork here, but maybe there's something at one of the other ports between here and Sandilar. Or a witness. They had to have brought the spider on board somewhere and they had to have offloaded the gold somewhere. See if you can find it.”
“But,” began Darnec, glancing at Natilia and Draeson.
“But nothing. Go. I'll let the king know where you're going.” Brannon turned to the others. “Taran, is there anything you can do chemically to restore burned paper? Not all of it has disintegrated. Can you . . . I don't know, glue it or something?” He waved his hand at the ash, wiggling his fingers. “Draeson? Anything you can do magically? Any scrap of information we can retrieve might be helpful.”
The priest and mage exchanged a glance. “Um . . . perhaps if we work together?” Taran ventured. “We can try.”
Brannon nodded. “Good. Then do it.”
“And you?” Draeson asked. “What will you be doing?”
Brannon straightened his jacket. “I still have a missing child to find.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Draeson and Brother Taran put Natilia’s office under quarantine while they tried to figure out how to remove the ashes of the harbor records without further destroying them. After watching their efforts achieve little more than swearing and frustration for almost an hour, Natilia rolled her eyes and left them to it. She gave Draeson a kiss on the forehead, left her key with him to lock up, and went home.
It'd been a weird day. Her job was normally fairly uneventful—sure, there was the occasional amorous sailor to put in his place or smuggler to bust, but crashing ships, missing gold, poisonous insects, and magical reconstructions were certainly not typical for the role!
She climbed the stairs of an old stone house that had been converted into smaller apartments, one of which was her current home, and shook her head at the strangeness. She'd made it through the day, despite flaming arrows and the incredible awkwardness of her ex and current paramours in the same room. Ahpra's Tears, she'd been startled when Darnec showed up at the docks. How he'd managed to get himself a good job with the palace guard was anyone's guess.
She unlocked her apartment door and stepped inside. The apartment was on two levels and was provided as part of her employment. It was compact, close enough to the docks to get to the office quickly, but far enough not to be constantly disturbed by the carousing of drunken sailors on their way back to their ships in the early hours of the morning. The previous harbor master had rarely used it, and when Natilia had moved in, the furniture was threadbare and dusty, and the amateurish frescos faded. Now, at least, the dust was gone. She'd make do with the rest for a while yet. Recently she'd spent much of her free time at Draeson's—and nothing about that man was threadbare or faded.
She dropped her coat on the floor and looked around. The dirty dishes from the morning were gone. So were the nightclothes she'd left on the chair. The floor was swept and the rug straightened. The whole place was much cleaner and tidier than she'd left it. Her eyes glanced quickly to the painting of the river mouth on the wall next to the stairs. It seemed undisturbed.
“Hello?” She called out, grimacing when she heard her voice crack. “Who's there?”
A familiar face stepped out from the kitchen. “Just me,” Darnec said. “I thought you might like something to eat.”
The pent-up breath left her in a rush like an outgoing tide. “Hooded Blood, Darnec. What are you doing here? You can't do this anymore.”
He moved a few steps toward her, one hand reaching forward, open. “I just thought . . . after today . . . you might like someone to take care of you.” He trailed off and waved his hand at the apartment's interior. “I just wanted to help.”
“It's not your job to take care of me,” Natilia said. “I can take care of myself. If I need help, I'll ask Draeson.”
Darnec snorted. “Ask Latricia Sandilar how that worked out.”
“Get out,” Natilia said, her jaw tight. “And leave the Hooded key behind this time.”
He glanced away but not before she saw the hurt in his eyes. “I know we're not a couple anymore,” he said quietly. “I get that. But . . . I want to keep an eye on you. Keep you safe.”
Natilia sighed. “You won't find my stash,” she said. “I moved it.”
He scowled, his hand curling into a fist. “It's not about that, Natilia!”
She sneered. “Sure it's not. So you didn't go looking while you were here alone? Not planning to do it again when your bookie comes calling?”
“No, I—”
She held up a hand to stop him. “I'm not interes
ted, Darnec. Keep the key if you want. I don't care anymore. But next time you use it, Draeson may have left a ward waiting for you.” She stepped aside and pointed to the door. “Now, I've asked you to leave and I won't do it again. Get out.”
“Okay.” Darnec nodded, his fingers loosening and clenching over and over at his side. “Okay.” He walked to the door and Natilia smelled fresh sweat and spices as he passed. He paused on the threshold. “Dinner is waiting for you,” he said. “It's your favorite. Don't let it get cold.”
She said nothing, merely pushing the door closed, nudging him out into the street. The latch clicked and she sagged against the door. She waited, counting to ten as she listened to his footsteps trudging away.
She hurried to the oil painting of the river mouth and pushed on the frame. The painting slid aside to reveal an undisturbed wall. She held her breath and touched the planks. They were still firmly nailed down, no sign of damage, no change.
The knots in her stomach loosened. He hadn't found it. She slid the painting back into place.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The palace of the Kalan king had never been a welcoming place for Ylani. Though the aesthetics of the place were, admittedly, more and more pleasant the closer she came to the king's actual audience chamber, the stone construction of the place was ultimately as hard and unforgiving as the attitudes of the people it housed. Seven years since the end of the war hadn't softened them enough to make diplomacy between the former enemies an easy task. What little access she'd had to the Kalan king had been limited of late. She'd had some progress negotiating trade deals with others and, surprisingly, developed an admiration for the Bloodhawk, but much of her work was akin to chipping at those hard stone walls with her fingernails.
Ylani missed the softness and curves of the architecture at home—the paper screens and silk panels, the carved mantels and lintels. She'd decorated her own office in the apartment provided for her with rich simplicity. Thick carpets, silk panels lining the walls, and a miniature pagoda-style house with a tiny pruned tree in a pot served as a reminder of her beloved Nilar, while the large desk and comfortable chairs provided space to work. To one side of the room were the doors that led out to her personal aviary where messenger pigeons could be gathered or released. Couriers between the countries were still infrequent at best, but that would pick up if her attempts to re-establish trade took off. Nilarian silk was impossible to get in Kalanon and that scarcity brought value. Many astute business people had bid for those import rights.
Back home, silk was used both for clothing and home decor. What seemed an extravagance to Kalans—the draped wall panels in her apartment in bright colors which held words of encouragement and strength—were common. Here, the Kalan tradition of plastering, and painting scenes from history and religion, took the place of those familiar draperies in an art form that was, she admitted, pleasant to look at but lacked the organic feeling of silk.
She chewed the edge of her bottom lip and let her hands smooth the crimson silk of her gown as she walked. The long, draping sleeves and the hem were embroidered with black to look like lace. The hat perched atop her curled dark hair was made of actual stiffened lace in the same color and pattern as the gown’s embroidered trim and dotted with sparkling crystals in the same shade as the dress. The same black fabric had been used to create the satchel that hung from her shoulder. There was no mistaking that she was Nilarian. She needed to emphasize who she was for the discussion to come. A silken outer layer over a resolve of Nilarian steel.
She let her fingers dip into the satchel, tracing the edge of the locked mahogany box that contained her coded mail from home. She knew what it said. The last several messages had been the same. Trade agreements were stalled until the ramifications of the Roydan fiasco were rectified. Her countrymen wanted their weapons back.
Ylani sighed. She could understand Aldan's reluctance. Nilarian steel was much stronger than what the Kalans knew how to make and that advantage in weaponry had almost been enough to win the Nilarians the war. Would have been enough, had it not been for the incident at the river Tilal that had drowned half the Nilarian army. The shipment Roydan had secured for his coup represented a significant benefit to Kalanon—oneNilar could not allow.
She turned a corner, bringing her closer to the king's audience chamber. Gathered courtiers in their palace finery turned to stare as she passed, their eyes sharp. Being the subject of their gaze was like being pecked by a flock of brightly colored birds.
If only she'd been able to provide the Kalans with information about who among her own countrymen had sent the weapons in the first place. Such a show of good faith, combined with the desire for peace, would likely have been enough to secure Aldan's cooperation. But her government had done little more than disavow any knowledge of the plot and, in her heart, Ylani was unsure they'd ever tried to investigate. The loss of those weapons would have been considered a small price if they'd exacted revenge on Aldan for his part in the war and replaced him with a king more sympathetic to Nilarian needs. While she didn't believe her government had sanctioned the plot, she had a hard time believing they cared to punish those who had.
But the weapons had to be returned. The correspondence had been very clear on that. She ran through the contents of the letters in her mind.
“Please convey our condolences for the recent upheaval in Kalanon and assure King Aldan that Nilar continues to desire a strong peace. We look forward to working together to return to a stable relationship.”
Followed by, “Nilar respectfully requests the return of the stolen property that was involved in the recent, distressing incident and continues to search for anyone who may have been convinced by Duke Roydan to betray our country.”
Then, “A delay in the return of valuable merchandise stolen in the commission of a crime by a Kalan nobleman has the potential to undermine the good relations between our countries.”
There was little patience left in Nilar for those whose actions had slaughtered so many of their countrymen. Her fingers clenched as she recalled the last lines of the most recent letter: “It is our resolution that Nilar not wait any longer for the return of our property. If you are unable to achieve this through diplomatic means, other steps must be considered.” This would be her last attempt at a diplomatic resolution. A sealed letter addressed to King Aldan himself had come with that last instruction. She took it from the satchel in preparation. The envelope was crisp white paper with a prominent red wax seal.
The surrounding courtiers had gone very quiet as they watched her approach the grand door at the end of the hall. The stone floor of the palace made each of her intrusive footsteps loud and violent, an assault on her ears.
The king's secretary met her at the audience chamber door, flanked by guards. He was a narrow, balding man with a pointed nose. “I'm sorry, Ambassador Ylani, King Aldan is not receiving visitors today. Please come back tomorrow and make an appointment.”
Ylani held the paper out like a shield, the crest of Nilar plain to see. “It is a matter of some urgency.”
The secretary's lips formed a thin smile. “Perhaps I can pass a message to His Majesty for you. Is it a different matter of urgency than your last visit?”
Ylani's eyes narrowed. “Please inform His Majesty that there have been developments. I'd prefer to speak with him myself.”
The secretary nodded, and at his gesture, the guards stepped forward. “Of course, ambassador. I'll make sure the king is aware of your needs.”
Ylani inclined her head politely. “My thanks. I'm sure you will do your job adequately.” She glanced around. How many of the courtiers were watching? How many straining to listen? “However, I may not have fully made my position clear. Further delay in this particular matter will result in a significant breakdown in relations between our two countries. Busy as he is, I'm sure the king would not want to create an avoidable diplomatic incident. After all, incidents between Kalanon and Nilar have a history of getting out of hand.” She
put a sweet smile to the words, hoping to soften the thinly veiled threat of war.
The secretary's eyes narrowed. “Oh, I'm sure His Majesty is fully aware of the potential for incidents. It was an ‘incident’ with Nilarians during the war that lost him his wife and son, after all. But I'm afraid he is unavailable to meet with you right now.”
The guards stepped forward again.
Ylani turned and walked away, forcing her feet to move slowly. Not running. Not showing fear. The smile hurt her face but she kept it on.
Behind her, the secretary muttered a nasty joke to the guards. “How many Nilarians does it take to light a candle? None. You can't light a candle underwater.”
Ylani kept her spine straight and kept walking. It was a physical surge of relief when she slipped beyond the sight of those watching. She'd clung to the hope that, once she was able to speak with him face-to-face, she could convince Aldan to do the right thing.
Now she knew she was wrong.
She flung the envelope back into the satchel. “Stuck between the Wolf and the Tilal,” she muttered. Tensions were high after the murders in Alapra and Sandilar. If those idiots back home made a move against Kalanon now, every attempt at maintaining peace between the two countries would have been for nothing.
As the door to her ambassadorial apartment closed behind her, Ylani let loose a string of Nilarian swear words that could have peeled the silk panels off the walls. As it was, the force she'd put behind slamming the door caused the colored silk with the symbol for “decorum” to shudder, making the receiving room look like the inside of a tent in a storm.
“Ahpra save me from pig-headed monarchs,” she growled.
“My Lady?” Myli, her assistant, looked up, eyes wide. She wore a simple round cap embroidered with gold and red thread. “Your meeting with the king . . . ?”
