by Darian Smith
“Went pretty much as expected.”
“Ah.”
There was something in Myli's expression. Ylani almost missed it, preoccupied as she was, but the Instinct twinged inside her. “Myli? What is it?” She chewed her lip, eyes narrowed slightly. “Did someone visit while I was out?”
“Ah, My Lady, nothing gets past you. They arrived just a short while ago. I let them wait in your office.”
“You what? Who is it?” Ylani's eyes widened in shock. She never held meetings in the office and always left it locked, even though the apartment was never unattended. A little paranoia went a long way when living in an enemy country. “There are confidential files in there. What were you thinking?”
Myli turned her eyes downcast. “I didn't think you would mind.”
“Get your crossbow!” Without waiting, Ylani hurried through the apartment to the office. Behind her frown, her mind ran through the various documents that were stored within, creating damage control scenarios in case they'd been compromised. If it were a potential trade partner the negotiations would have to change. If it was one of Aldan's men . . . well, at least she'd had the communications box in her satchel. But what if . . .
She pushed open the door and stopped. Two men leaned casually against the edge of her wooden desk. One she had never seen before. He was maybe in his late thirties or early forties, handsome, with a strong jaw, and dark eyes and hair. He wore a quality white silk shirt with gold thread and a dark brown fedora with a colorful band around it. The other . . .
“Hey sis,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows up and down in a playful greeting. His shirt was patterned with vibrant blues and his hat matched the deepest of them. He wore a leather glove on one hand and a wicked, lopsided smile. His eyes twinkled as they met hers. “Surprise!”
Ylani let the satchel slide to the floor. “Marrol? Ahpra's Tears, what are you doing here?” She crossed the distance between them as if catapulted and embraced her younger brother. “Why did nobody tell me you were coming?”
“The officials wanted to, but I convinced them it was more fun this way.” Marrol chuckled.
Ylani stepped back but not before giving him a playful slap on the shoulder. “You gave me a heart attack, sneaking in here like that.”
He grinned back at her, completely unrepentant. “I know. I thought you were going to have poor Myli deported on the spot!”
“I was considering it!” She let her gaze run over him. She had so little contact with people from home, and less still with family. Just the presence of her brother melted the stress of the day and brought a smile from her core. “You're looking good, little brother. Still wearing the glove, I see.” She touched the leather with a delicate fingertip.
He glanced away and shrugged. “A lot of people do, Ylani. Why must you always draw attention to it?”
“I . . . I don't know, actually.” She regretted mentioning it at once. She wanted him to be comfortable with himself and if the glove helped him with that, what difference did it make? “Forgive me?”
He wrinkled his nose at her like a pouting child. “Maybe. If you show us the best places to eat and be entertained in this dump of a city.”
“I've yet to find them, myself!” Ylani laughed. “But you haven't introduced me to your companion.” She turned to the older man. “Welcome. I'm always pleased to meet a friend of Marrol's.”
He smiled and held out his hand. “Lovely to meet you, ambassador. I've heard many things about you back home and your beauty was not exaggerated. I am here to assist you and your brother. My name is Nycol.”
Ylani reached out to shake his hand. “You flatter me, Nycol. I'm intrigued as to what it is you're both here to—” She gasped as the stranger's skin touched her fingers, the Instinct like a jolt of lightning surging up her arm from his hand. Her eyes widened. “Magus?”
Nycol pulled his hand back. “By the Wolf!” he exclaimed.
Marrol hugged his stomach and rocked back and forth, chortling loudly. “Pay up,” he said.
Nycol shook his head and pulled a purse from his pocket and handed it to the younger man while Ylani watched, bewildered.
“What's going on?” she said.
“We had a bet on how quickly you'd pick up that he was a mage,” Marrol told her, slipping the purse into his own pocket. “You always had the strongest Instinct of all of us.”
“Marrol!” Ylani frowned. The Instinct was a Shalar family secret.
Her brother shrugged. “Relax, sis. He knows about us.”
She circled around the desk to settle in her chair and gestured to the two men to take seats also. “Okay, I'm officially curious! Marrol, last I knew, you had nothing to do with the government and were content as a trader. Now you're here on a mission with a mage?”
Marrol chewed his lower lip a moment before he answered. “I'm still a trader, but . . . things have changed back home. A lot.”
Ylani frowned. “How so?”
“The rebuild is taking longer than people expected,” Marrol said. “People are wanting faster, more affordable workforce options.”
“What does that mean?” Ylani heard the hard edge in her voice.
The men exchanged a significant look.
Ylani leaned forward. “Marrol, a ‘cheap workforce’ is what our government used to call slavery. You can't mean . . .”
Her brother shrugged. “There are those who find the old rules appealing. But most don't want to see any of our people in chains again. That's why I volunteered to come here and bring Nycol. We need a good news story back home to boost morale.”
Ylani snorted. “I'm not sure how you think I can help there.”
“Ah, sis,” he said with a wink. “We're here to help you create one. We're going to steal back our swords.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The cobbler's landlords had cats. Lots of cats.
Brannon liked cats as a rule, but even the best of things, in excessive quantities, could become problematic. These people embraced excess when it came to cats, if not in any other way. Their clothing was shabby and the house run-down, but they were rich in furry companions. The wooden steps and doorposts bore the claw marks of their many felines and the smell of the place was pungent and sharp.
The man was chubby and held two tiny kittens in his arms as he spoke to Brannon and Draeson on his doorstep. One was black, the other ginger, and both treated his bulky chest and shoulders as a climbing frame, scaling his clothes like hook-clawed monkeys, but he didn't seem to notice. “I haven't seen Eaglin or his daughter in days,” he said. “But that's not unusual. The basement has its own entrance and they're good tenants. We don't bother them if they don't bother us.”
“That seems like a good arrangement,” Brannon said. “Can you think of any reason anyone would want to hurt him?”
The man pinned one of the kittens against his chest and rubbed its chin with a thick finger. “Nope.”
“Do they get many visitors?”
The landlord tilted his head to one side. “A woman comes by now and then. Usually in the evening. A few days ago a man came asking. Well-dressed. I didn't catch a name.”
Brannon and Draeson exchanged a look. The mage had left Taran to work his alchemy on the ashes from the harbor master's office and joined Brannon to check for traces of magic in Eaglin's home.
“That could fit with what the old cobbler told us about Eaglin's special customer,” Draeson said. “Lady Belania and her suspicious husband.”
“I wouldn't know anything about that,” the large man said. The kitten gnawed his finger.
“Well, thank you for your help,” Brannon said. “Would you mind if we took a look inside? There may be something that helps us find his killer.”
“Look as much as you like, Sir Brannon. And if you find the girl, let her know she'll have to find a new place or start paying the rent. We can't afford to go easy under the circumstances. We've a lot of hungry mouths to feed.”
“Of course.” Brannon glanced at
the kittens and raised an eyebrow.
The external entrance to the basement rooms was around the side of the house. One of Darnec's guards had positioned himself within view of the door but leaned against the fence in a slovenly manner. He straightened up when he saw Brannon and the mage, snapping a salute. “No one been in or out, Sir Brannon,” he said. “Not since I've been here, anyway. But the landlord's been asking when he can re-tenant the place.”
Draeson snorted. “Hungry mouths to feed,” he said. “Furry ones. At least the place should be free of mice.”
Inside, the basement was better cared for than the main portion of the house. Eaglin had clearly been somewhat house-proud, despite the state of the house in which he dwelled. The walls were freshly painted and there were worn but quality carpets on the floor. Everything was clean and tidy. The only sign of neglect was the slightly musty smell due to the rooms not being aired out for days and a vase of wilted flowers that had dropped their petals on the wooden dining table.
“Shalyn?” Brannon called softly as they made their way through the basement apartment. “Are you here? My name's Sir Brannon Kesh. We're here to help you.”
“Nice to hear you claiming the title,” Draeson said. “Half the time you avoid it.”
Brannon shrugged. “People know me by it. If she's here, it might help her trust us.”
“People know you by Bloodhawk,” the mage countered. “But I'm not sure that would help.”
Brannon shot him a filthy look. “Make yourself useful and see if she's hiding in the bedroom, would you?”
Draeson spread his hands apart, feigning innocence. “Just saying.”
“I should have left you working on those ashes with Taran,” Brannon muttered.
There was no sign of Shalyn in her bedroom, just a mattress on the floor with the covers pulled up and tucked in tight. Dolls and stuffed animals made from a patchwork of shoe scraps stood guard in one corner and a chest of drawers in the other.
“Well, while we're just saying things,” Brannon said, leading the way back into the living area and heading for the next bedroom. “What possessed you to take up with Natilia? You must have known that would cause friction in our group.”
“You did, actually,” Draeson said.
Brannon paused at the doorway and raised an eyebrow. “Really? I made you break up Darnec's relationship and flaunt your own relationship with the woman he loves? How exactly did I do that?”
“They were already broken up. She dumped him when he was arrested for stealing to pay his gambling debts. And you insisted I should stop hitting on people.”
“My apprentices, in particular.”
Draeson's eyes narrowed. “After Sandilar, you said I should be responsible and try a more stable relationship.”
“I didn't mean someone else's.” Brannon sighed. “And I thought you'd find someone more your own age.”
“There is no one my age,” Draeson growled. “And why shouldn't I go a bit younger? What's a few more years here or there when I'm already older than everyone's great-grandparents?”
“I suppose that's a fair point,” Brannon admitted.
“I didn't know Natilia and Darnec had a history when I met her,” Draeson said. “And when I found out . . . well, I like her.”
“Really?” Brannon suddenly felt awkward. Somehow this wasn't a turn he'd expected the conversation to take. He scratched at this scar. “Okay then.”
They walked into the next room. An entire wall was taken up with what appeared to be a giant bookshelf made of recycled planks of wood salvaged from lumberyards. Rather than books, however, the shelves were crowded with a display of brightly colored and exotically decorated women's shoes, perched like a swarm of jeweled butterflies on the branches of an unworthy tree. Many of them sparkled with beading and crystals in patterns along the sides and across the toes. Others were decoratively stitched. One pair had peacock feathers swooping artfully up the sides to tickle the ankle of the wearer. They were all much more creative than what had been on display in the cobbler's shop.
A small desk and chair were next to a closed wardrobe in one corner where, presumably, Eaglin kept his tools and worked on his creations. Another chair and footstool sat next to the display case for people to try on the shoes. A single crystal-crusted shoe rested on its side atop the footstool.
Draeson ran a finger over a glittering green high heel on the shelf. “So it seems our victim had a healthy side business going. Do you think his employer knew?”
“Good question,” Brannon said. “They said he had a particular set of customers but they didn't mention this.”
“Doesn't seem like he'd be doing it out of his home if the old man knew he had this level of skill. He'd be at the shop and the boss would be taking his cut.”
Brannon nodded. “Which is probably why he's doing it here. He didn't want to give his employer a part of the action. And if he was found out . . .” His words trailed off and he turned toward the wardrobe, a hand raised to silence further talk. “Did you hear that?”
The door of the wardrobe quivered as if alive and a creaking sound came from inside. Then a faint scuffle. Then a shushing hiss.
Brannon took a slow step towards it. “Shalyn? Is that you?”
Draeson touched his arm and then pointed to the sparkling shoe on the footstool. “One's missing,” he whispered. “They're not child-sized.”
Brannon nodded. He gestured for the mage to stand back and be ready while he himself approached the wardrobe with silent steps, like a raiding soldier in an enemy camp. He left his sword sheathed but pulled his dagger just in case, holding it low and ready in his right hand. He reached out with his left hand and pulled the wardrobe door open.
A short woman with auburn hair and a slim, sharp-nosed man pressed themselves against the back of the wardrobe. Clothes on hangers had been pushed to either side to make way for them. They stared at Brannon with wide eyes. The woman wore the missing shoe on one foot and it caught the light like a crushed mirror. Her other foot had nothing but a stocking and she held a pair of simple, but quality, leather slippers in her hands.
Brannon stepped back and jerked his head toward the center of the room. The two intruders, their faces red, climbed out of the wardrobe. The woman stood awkwardly, with one heel higher than the other because of her one shoe.
“And you are?” Brannon asked, his eyebrow raised.
The couple glanced at each other. The man cleared his throat but it was the woman who spoke. “I'm Belania Cardel and this is my husband, Treagid. We're friends of Eaglin. Business partners.”
“Is that what you're calling it these days?” Draeson muttered with a chuckle. “That's not what we heard.”
Belania scowled. “What's that supposed to mean?”
Brannon raised his hand before the mage could reply. “Lady Belania, I do recognize you from court so I'd like to keep this polite to reduce your embarrassment; however, we will need to ask you and your husband some questions about what you were doing hiding in a dead man's house.”
She swallowed and nodded in a staccato burst of movement. “Of course. My apologies, Sir Brannon. This must look very improper.”
Brannon felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “It does, yes. Could you tell us what you're doing here? And the nature of your relationship with Eaglin?”
“Business or otherwise,” Draeson added.
Belania sat on the stool and arranged her skirts so the sparkling shoe she wore peeped from beneath the fabric like a diamond rabbit emerging from its den. Her husband stood behind her, his hand rested on her shoulder. “We came for the product,” she said. “We paid for it and it's ours. We had nothing to do with Eaglin's death.”
“The product being?” Brannon prompted.
“The shoes, of course.” Belania waved a hand at the shelves of footwear. “He made all of these for us.”
“But you decided to break in and take them rather than claim them openly?” Brannon folded his arms, letting the bla
de of the dagger in his hand poke out ominously at the seated woman's eye level.
She swallowed. “We thought it would be easier.”
Treagid nodded. “We didn't want to make a fuss.”
“Really?” Brannon exchanged a look with Draeson. “Perhaps you should start at the beginning.”
Lady Belania reached up to pat her husband's hand on her shoulder. “Cardel's finances have been waning of late. Treagid and I have been looking for a way to bolster income. Some months ago, Treagid heard that there was a particularly talented cobbler here in Alapra and I came to check out his work. That's when I met Eaglin. I contracted him to make me several pairs of shoes. His employer is very talented but lacks imagination. Eaglin does not.” She shrugged and looked at Brannon. When he simply raised his eyebrows and tilted his head, she continued. “So I spoke to him. We came up with an agreement. He would make the shoes at the store and we pay for them there—he was insistent about that so we weren't cheating his boss of any business—but then he would bring them here to his home and embellish them. Then I would sell them to ladies at court and we would all make money. So you see, there's no reason for us to have killed him.”
“Unless he got greedy,” Draeson said. “And tried to cut you out of the deal.”
Belania shook her head. “He couldn't. No one at court would be willing to deal with him without a proper introduction. That's why all of the shoes were made in my size first—I wear them to special events, showing off the products to everyone at court, and then people come to me wanting to know where to get things like that for themselves.”
Her husband's shoulders slumped. “Without Eaglin, the plan fails,” he said. “This existing stock is all we have, and the chances of finding another cobbler with the skill and creativity to match it are virtually nonexistent. We're just here to take what we've paid for and make the most of it.”
“How did you get in?” Brannon asked. “I have a guard watching the door.”
“There's a back entrance Eaglin always had us use so the landlord wouldn't ask questions.” Belania said. “We came in that way rather than have to explain all this, but then we heard you arrive and . . . we panicked.”
