by Darian Smith
“Are you close to your brother?” he asked, partly to break the silence and partly to shift focus from the unresolved mysteries circling in his thoughts.
Ylani shifted in her seat. “We were when we were younger. The whole family worked together. But war changes people and we had different parts to play.”
“Ah. You were a spy and then a politician and he was . . . ?”
“A soldier,” she said. “And then he went back to being a merchant. It's what our family has always done and his injuries meant he wasn't up for much in the way of physical work.”
“Injuries?”
She looked at him hard. “Not everyone got out of the war with just a scratch, Brannon.” She ran a finger along her cheekbone to indicate his scar. “Marrol was lucky to survive. He took a spear to the gut, lost three fingers on his right hand, and walked with a limp for months. The last time I saw him before leaving for Kalanon, he was in a bad way emotionally. Frankly, I'm surprised he got over it enough to come back here.”
“Why did he come back?”
“To help me.” Ylani turned to look out the window. “There's no one like family when you're in a bind, don't you think?”
Brannon thought about his childhood home. It'd been a long time since he'd seen it. “Sometimes family is what you make it,” he said. “It's not always blood.”
“Very true,” Ylani agreed.
The carriage came to a stop outside the Blue Rose. Customers sat in the garden area in front of the building or milled about, chatting and enjoying the sun as they waited for drinks or to be seated for lunch. Many of them looked up as the group of guards took positions beside the entrance.
“Brannon?” Ylani touched Brannon's arm as he moved to open the carriage door. “Have you noticed anything odd lately?”
Brannon snorted. “Plenty. Take your pick.”
“No, I mean with you. Your abilities. Since what happened with Ula in Sandilar.”
He'd tried not to think too much about the events of Sandilar. “No,” he said. “Why?”
She smiled and shook her head. “Just wondered.”
Mala, the day manager of the Blue Rose, met them on the steps as they approached. Her gray hair was up in a bun and she was eye level with Brannon only because she stood on the top step and he was still on the path. “Sir Brannon. You're welcome, as always, but I'm not in a rush to have the kind of chaos your last visit brought us.” She eyed the guards who followed him and the ambassador with suspicion.
“None of us would want that, Mala,” Brannon said, putting on his best reassuring smile. “But we do have some business with one of your guests. I'll try to keep any disruption to a minimum.”
Mala huffed but stood aside. “Who are you after?” She nodded toward Ylani. “That one's brother is on the top floor. He and his friend have all the rooms on the left side.”
“You assume the worst of all your paying guests, or just Nilarians?” Ylani asked coolly.
Mala shrugged. “He's paid well and two months is longer than most guests stay, I'll give you that. But the better something seems, the more likely it's trouble. That's what my father used to say.”
Brannon spoke up before Ylani could respond. “Is he in his room?”
“Yes,” Mala nodded. “Shall I fetch him?”
“We'll go up,” Brannon said. “But perhaps you could come and unlock the doors for us?”
The uppermost level of the Blue Rose was quiet. The stairs were carpeted and muffled their footsteps as they climbed. Brannon considered whether to leave Ylani downstairs, concerned that she might try to warn her brother somehow, but the reality was there was no way Marrol could shift an entire shipment of swords without significant notice. Even if she were to call out, there was little he could do. She moved with graceful confidence, even smiling when he glanced her way. Somehow he didn't think there would be anything to find.
Mala led the way down the hall. The walls were painted peach, with cream patterns like vines weaving their way through the garden trellis in a grand noble house. Three doors on the right led into extensive suites for high-paying clients. They were vacant, Mala told them, and had been inspected by the staff just that morning. On the left, two doors were closed and locked.
Mala knocked on the first door and, when there was no answer, took a key from a chain around her neck and unlocked it.
Brannon peered inside. The suite appeared unoccupied. He gestured to three of the guards accompanying them, to go inside. “Let me know if you find anything,” he said. “Don't make a mess.”
A few steps later, Mala paused at the blank wall opposite the central door on the right. She frowned a moment, then continued on. The far left door opened before they reached it and a smartly dressed man with dark hair and a crimson hat stepped out into the hallway.
“Looking for me?” He asked.
Mala quickly excused herself and hurried back to her customers downstairs. It was Ylani who made the introductions.
“Marrol, this is Sir Brannon Kesh,” she said sweetly. “It appears the Kalan king has misplaced the stolen swords we've been asking to have returned and Sir Brannon wonders if we might have found them.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Brannon said. He nodded his head toward the open door. “You don't mind if we take a look inside, do you? I'm sure you have nothing to hide.”
“Private sales records and the like,” Marrol Shaylar said, frowning. “A merchant's negotiation ability relies on keeping his numbers to himself.” He looked from Brannon to the men accompanying them and back again. “You have an odd way of making people feel welcome here in Kalanon.”
“I don't mean to offend,” Brannon said. “And we won't be looking at any books or records. We simply want to rule out the possibility that you have the swords.”
Marrol shrugged and waved a hand toward the door. The hand was missing three fingers—one of the war injuries Ylani had mentioned. “By all means, go right ahead.”
The suite was richly appointed, with comfortable furniture and beautiful painted ceilings. There was little in the way of belongings the Nilarian merchant had brought with him. A few suitcases, empty now that the clothes hung in the closet, some books, and a number of hats.
“Did you not bring any wares with you?” Brannon asked. “Or have you sold all your stock already?”
Marrol leaned against the edge of a desk and folded his arms. “We brought a few samples with us. It doesn't take much to move Nilarian silk here in Kalanon. After all, we have the monopoly. There's a crate under the bed if you want to see what we have left.”
It was the only crate in either suite that had a chance of being big enough to contain the length of a sword and, as promised, it contained nothing but a few bolts of colorful silk. Ylani ran her fingers over the fabric and suggested that she might take a length to a tailor for herself. A thorough search of the rest of the spaces revealed nothing of consequence.
Brannon sighed. There was every chance the man had a storage space somewhere else entirely, but finding it would be next to impossible and a poor use of his resources with the other, far more urgent, issues to deal with.
“Did you really think we were in the sword stealing business, Sir Bloodhawk?” Marrol asked, pulling on a glove with prosthetic fingers to hide the missing portion of his hand.
“Call me Brannon.” There was a bite in his tone. “And, as Ambassador Ylani has pointed out, a Nilarian might not consider it stealing since they're Nilar's swords.”
Marrol inspected his gloved hand. He shifted the position of the prosthetic so that it sat more naturally to mimic fingers. “Indeed. And yet here you are, supporting your country's misdeeds yet again.”
“Again?” Brannon kept his voice flat, despite the anger that surged in him. “I've always done my duty, but defending Kalanon against invaders is not a misdeed. Nor, whether I agree with keeping the swords or not, is catching a thief who knocked an entire group of guards unconscious in the course of their crime.”
; Marrol raised his hands. “As you can see, there are no thieves here.”
“The swords aren't here.” Brannon looked at Ylani and her brother. He wasn't ready to agree to a lack of thieves. “Where's your colleague? The one who occupies the other suite?”
“Nycol? He's downstairs,” Marrol said. “He said something about a lunch date. I'm sure you could harass him on your way out.”
“I'll do that.” Brannon gestured to the guards to leave. “Thank you for your cooperation.”
Ylani walked out with him and the door closed behind them with a firm click.
“I don't think he likes me very much,” Brannon commented wryly.
“He's Nilarian and you're Kalan. Don't let it bother you,” Ylani told him. “Most Kalans still don't like me.”
“Not all of them,” Brannon said.
She smiled. “Perhaps not all.”
The bar area downstairs served as a restaurant during the day. A string quartet played softly in the corner and customers clustered around linen-covered tables, indulging in slow roasted vegetables and meats, breads with layered herbs and cheese baked into them, sweet fruit pastries, and scones with cream. Brannon scanned the room, looking for anyone with a hat—the most likely to be Nilarian.
“Ambassador, perhaps you could point Nycol out to me. I assume you've met him before?”
“Because all Nilarians know each other and commit crimes together?” she said with a wicked light in her eye.
“Because he's your brother's colleague. And probably, but I doubt I'm going to prove it.”
Ylani laughed then, a genuine, mirthful sound. “You're a good man, Sir Brannon. Ridiculous in your loyalty to Aldan sometimes, but definitely good.” She pointed through the crowd. “He's over there. And it looks like someone has beaten you to him.”
The man she pointed to was maybe a little younger than Brannon himself, with dark hair and dark eyes. He was handsome and, surprisingly, wore no hat. He was sitting at a small table with another man, who seemed much younger than himself. As Brannon made his way closer, he realized who the Nilarian's companion was.
“Draeson?”
Neither man heard him and, while Brannon was still a few tables away, Nycol stood, took Draeson by the hand, and drew the mage to his feet. He leaned in and the two men kissed.
“Oh my,” Ylani murmured. “Perhaps we should speak with him later. I thought our mage had given up his promiscuous ways and was trying a stable relationship.”
“He was,” said Brannon. “With Natilia, the harbor master.”
“That harbor master?” Ylani pointed toward the double glass doors that lead from the dining hall out into the garden.
Natilia's face was pressed up against the glass, her hand resting on the door handle, and her mouth a horrified circle. She seemed frozen in place as though by one of Draeson's ice spells. Then the spell broke and she turned and ran.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Draeson looked up as the waiter brought his drink. Brannon was busy upstairs sorting the sword nonsense with Ylani. Draeson supposed he should join in but there didn't seem any point. A flock of soldiers was just as capable of finding stolen swords as he was. That said, neither he nor the guards combing the city had been successful in finding the creature murdering people and taking children so perhaps searching was simply not their forte.
He raised the glass to his lips and took a sip. “Excellent. Thank you.”
The waiter nodded. “Shall I bring you your usual, Magus Draeson? Steak? Rare?”
Draeson set the glass down again and stared at the liquid inside. A single red drop ran down the side. He took a deep breath. “Perhaps just vegetables today.”
“Of course, sir. I'll be back shortly.”
“I'm a fan of vegetables myself,” said a man who looked to be in his forties, handsome, with a speckling of gray in his hair. “But I think you confused that waiter.” He winked. “I'm Nycol.”
Draeson gave him a weak smile. It was one of the perks of his new, youthful body that he was often approached by interested men and women. His decision to try a monogamous experience with Natilia hadn't diminished the pleasure the attention brought but it did make it more awkward to manage. He sighed. “To be honest, I couldn't face steak. I've seen too much blood already today.”
The other man's eyebrows raised. “Oh dear. Perhaps I could join you and take your mind off it?” He waved around the Blue Rose dining hall. “All the other tables are taken anyway.”
“I'm waiting for someone,” Draeson told him.
The man pulled out the chair and sat down. “Just until they arrive, then.”
Draeson shrugged and picked at his sleeve. Natilia was late. Perhaps she wasn't coming. A little attention from a handsome stranger might lighten his mood. There was a spot of dried blood on his white cuff. He wasn't sure how he'd missed it earlier. It could have been Magda's. It could have been anyone's. Life was full of blood; somehow he'd forgotten that, in the time since the war.
“A bad morning?” Nycol asked.
“You could say that.” Draeson met the man's gaze. He had deep blue eyes. He'd seen eyes like that before. Years ago. It was hard to remember when. He'd seen so many come and go. Seen so many eyes close for the last time. There were very few people who understood what that was like. Even eyes like these could never have seen enough to truly get it. Life was the most important thing of all, and yet it was futile. “Have you lost many people?”
Nycol shrugged. “A few. It happens to us all eventually. It's the punishment for loving.”
Draeson looked down at the tattoo on his wrist. The little dragon remained still. Punishment for loving, indeed. More like the punishment for living. Death was a constant companion for the immortal. The only companion guaranteed to remain.
“The best thing to do,” Nycol continued, “is to reaffirm yourself. Do something that makes you feel alive.”
“Is that so?” Draeson raised an eyebrow. A cynical chuckle caught in his throat. He'd put so much of his energy into the feeling of having a purpose—the protection of Kalanon. It was only recently that he'd truly started to feel alive. The old and decrepit body he'd endured for almost four hundred years had lacked somewhat in vigor. “And what would you suggest?”
Nycol reached across the table and laid his hand on Draeson's. “There are definitely ways to help you remember to enjoy life,” he said with a smile.
Draeson pulled his hand back. “My girlfriend is—”
“Not here,” said Nycol. “Is she ever?”
Draeson fell silent. Natilia was young. Too young, in many ways. She wouldn't understand the melancholia that plagued him when the years were weighing heavily. Her presence had made him feel young at first but now . . . Even when she was with him, there were still times he felt alone. Regular folk were a poor substitute for the company of his own kind. But they were the only substitute he had.
He let his fingers stretch forward.
Nycol took his hand again and stood, drawing him to his feet. The man leaned in and his lips pressed against Draeson's. It was warm and familiar. It was present and alive.
A low tide of guilt washed over him but it lacked the energy to change his course. He was tired. Bone-tired. It was hard to see the benefit of an enduring relationship. Betrayal would come in one form or another. He'd seen it too many times over the centuries to doubt it. She would betray him, or he would betray her. And even if they didn't, she would eventually betray him with her death and leave him heartless and alone. Her life was short and pointless. Whereas he, as long as the royal bloodline existed, would live on, eternal.
Eternal and alone.
Draeson kissed back.
Finally Nycol broke away. “I'll have our meal sent up to my room,” he said. “We can eat there and continue our talk in private.”
Draeson nodded, slightly breathless. It was a pleasant feeling to be pursued, to lose himself in the sensation of being prized. “Yeah. Let's.”
It took mere mome
nts to speak to the waiter and then follow Nycol upstairs. Worries of murderers, blood, and mortality were shut outside as the door clicked closed behind them.
The room was well appointed—the Blue Rose was known for its comforts. The bedcovers were crisp and pulled tight, with cushions piled artistically high, ready to be scattered. The ceiling was painted with a fresco of Valdan and Ahpra's marriage and the walls were tastefully decorated with landscapes. Even the doorframes and windowsills were decoratively carved.
Draeson felt Nycol's touch on his arm and the warmth brought a response from his own youthful body. He closed his eyes and breathed in the sensations, letting them drive all thoughts from his mind. In a life that never ended, the pleasures of the moment were all that could be counted on. The taste of wine on a lover's lips, the touch of skin on skin, the scent of flowers, perfume, sweat, and spice. The tingle, on the edge of his awareness, of power.
Magic.
Draeson frowned and opened his eyes.
“What's wrong?” Nycol reached out to touch his face but Draeson pulled away.
He paced the room. “There's something . . . off . . . in here.” He let his fingers trace the objects he encountered: the back of a chair, the edge of a painting frame, the wall. “Something that shouldn't be . . .”
“There's nothing like that,” Nycol soothed. “I've been living here for weeks now. Months.”
So long? That seemed strange.
“There!” It was a patch of wall that was somehow wrong. Draeson reached out with his power and he could feel the light scattering over a spell designed to conceal. What was there?
“Come to bed,” Nycol said. He lifted one of the cushions and reached beneath it.
“There's a door here,” Draeson said. He played what he'd seen in the hallway through his mind. Three doors to rooms on the right-hand side but only two on the left. “Someone's hidden an entire suite. Why would they do that?”
