by John March
They wore nothing else, stripped to the waist and bare footed, displaying squat lumpen heavily muscled bodies, the colour of pale blue veined marble. From where they stood, crowded up to Vittore's desk, Orim picked up a powerful musky scent — a combination of old dust, stale sweat and something elusive that reminded him of rich warm soil after rain.
“De Obril guetes de Ducess,” said one of the vawden from the centre of the group.
The speaker seemed to be speaking a mangled form of Volanian, but Orim struggled to make out any of the words.
One of the nearest vawden turned his head to stare at Orim, while edging himself further into the midst of his companions. His eyes were pure black, and reminded Orim of small shiny buttons.
Orim waited impassively as the vawden leader started a long speech. The words were meaningless to him, but the hints of impatience on Vittore's face were clear. The vawden leader seemed to be launching into the start of a long list of arguments or complaints, when Vittore cut him short with a sharp gesture. Moments later, Gairlan Clay opened the double doors at the far end of the room.
“Perhaps I should have them declared vermin,” said Vittore irritably as he watched the retreating backs of the vawden.
“Did you understand any of that?” he asked, glancing at Orim. “They complained about the Koho encroaching on their territory. I had to remind Obril that the Koho have been here the longest, and most of us arrived much later, and by rights he wouldn't have any part of the roots if they hadn't been generous. He didn't like that much, so I told him to put his points in writing and send them to me for consideration.”
Vittore picked up a bundle of papers and waved them at Orim. “But enough with the vawden, we need to discuss something of greater importance.”
Gairlan reappeared at the main doors.
“Thank you, Clay — can you please shut the doors, and ensure we aren't interrupted,” Vittore said.
When the doors were shut, Vittore beckoned Orim closer.
“Were you at the test today, did you witness what happened? These reports are unclear,” Vittore said, pushing the sheaf of papers across his desk, his mouth a thin line.
“Yes,” Orim said. “It is good to see who is chosen, and who chooses.” He left unspoken his desire to spot troublemakers as early as possible.
“Tell me,” Vittore said.
“Three steps there are in this test, do you know this?”
Vittore nodded. “Yes, I understand the principle of the test.”
“With the smaller pieces he was untroubled. This a mark of power. Few complete the second.”
“You can pass the second stage?”
“Yes,”Orim said.
“And at the third stage — what happened?”
“Twice he tried. All sevyric iron in the hall went the second time. Many bindings there were destroyed. Hibgud became enraged.”
“The iron was destroyed?” Vittore's face came as close as Orim had ever seen to an expression of incredulity.
“Destroyed? I believe not. Removed, I believe,” Orim said. He picked up a stray glass weight resting near the edge of the desk, holding it in the upturned palm of his outstretched hand. “Folding was his display skill, like so—”
Orim frowned in concentration for a moment, and the after-image of the vanished glass sphere collapsed inwards — slowly at first, then accelerating, as if drained away through an impossibly small hole. He waited until nothing but a faint glow remained in the space above his palm before bringing the paperweight back to his hand with a word, and faintest hint of a gesture.
“As with this,” Orim said, returning the weight to the desk, “the iron pieces have dispersed to his shadow self, his mantle, where they will be carried with him. It may be he can return them.”
“How did the masters feel about this. Were there any bids for the young man?” Vittore asked.
“For their part, confounded. Some fearful, others happy. A few bids there were placed, Master Brack put in all—”
“Yes, Brack wouldn't be able to resist,” Vittore said, nodding.
“Elector Tenlier also.”
“Tenlier?” Vittore asked. “What was he doing there? He hasn't attended a selection for how long?”
“I remember not,” Orim said, shrugging, “but precedence he has. If Ebryn accepts, he will be Elector Tenlier's apprentice.”
“Hmm … perhaps a coincidence. Brack will be frustrated.” Vittore leafed through the papers in front of him. “Did Tenlier choose anybody else?”
“Apprenticeship to a woman by the name Aara Sur, of Deldeon,” Orim said.
Vittore extracted a page from the bundle of papers and ran his finger down a column of names on the right hand side. The writing was tiny and, unlike the runic script of Orim's native lands, ran from right to left — a version of old Volanian, but not one he recognised.
Vittore looked up at Orim. “The boy, he had an assessor called Ethal Quentyn. Do you know him?”
“No,” Orim said. “This is not a name I have heard.”
“From what I read in this report I suspect Quentyn is little more than another's instrument,” Vittore said. “And this Ebryn? Strange chance he is here now, when throwing an enraged cheg into the midst of foraging gullus could hardly create a greater mess.”
There was a long silence as Vittore leant forward on his elbows, fingertips pressed together under his chin, eyes unfocused, lips pursed.
Orim waited patiently for him to complete his thoughts. He watched fine motes of dust as they drifted into the fading light from the windows, wondering how long it would take to clear the lingering sour odour of the Vawden entirely from the room.
“The simplest path would be to kill him. But he may be a ploy, a distraction, and I would rather find out why, before we act,” Vittore said. His chair protested as he settled back. “We have a cord made of many threads, but for the moment each will be occupied watching his neighbour. I can think of a few who will want to find out how he acquired his ability. This Ebryn should be safe until they have discovered the source of this talent he has, but I think it would be wise to set a watch against hotheads. The assessor Quentyn will be their first move, as he is closest to hand. We must take him first. He won’t be able to tell you his name after they've wrung him dry.”
“I should do what with this Ethal Quentyn when I find him?” Orim asked.
“We need to discover everything he knows on this matter. Who sent him to Ebryn, the boy’s circumstances and who taught him. Do whatever is necessary to learn this, then hide Quentyn somewhere he will not be found. We must follow this trail to the end.”
Orim nodded, and turned to leave.
Vittore held up a hand as Orim opened the door. “And Orim, be quick, but ensure our hand remains hidden. Report back if you discover anything of significance.”
Orim closed the door behind him but didn’t leave at once. Instead he stood in silence and listened. At first he heard no noises in the room he'd just left apart from Vittore clearing his throat and shuffling papers, but after a while he made out the faintest click from a closing door, and soft footsteps.
“Please sit,” Vittore said. “Did you hear everything?”
There was the sound of a chair scraping on the floor and a woman’s voice.
“Yes. You think the Vawden are vermin, and you want to exterminate them.”
Orim recognised the cool precise tones of Nee Daelith, head of the watchers chapter of the Aremetuet.
“And the rest — what did you make of it?”
There followed a silence in which Orim guessed some silent communication had passed between Nee and Vittore.
“What is it?” Vittore asked.
“Orim is here, listening,” Nee said.
Vittore made a dismissive sound. “I would be disappointed were he not.”
Nee cleared her throat. “We might differ on the odd point of detail, yet I admit, in every essential Orim has provided an accurate account.”
“And yo
u think this Ebryn is trained in the fashion of the Aremetuet?”
“Galling as it is, I must agree with the Ronyon. Even without the oddness, this boy would make a fine candidate. His ward was exceptional — it would have put many masters to shame. Whoever trained him undoubtedly possessed much knowledge, and a great deal of eccentricity. I could see no clear pattern in what he's learnt.”
“And do you think he could have been taught to do this thing with sevyric iron?” Vittore asked.
“No, I think not,” Nee said. “Why would a caster train some stripling boy to do this, if they could do it for themselves. If there is a way to teach such a skill, without first knowing it, I cannot imagine what that method might be. At the examination this Ebryn looked to be as surprised as any in the room — as you know we cannot take sevyric iron to Fyrenar, so he could not have practised there. He seemed as unfamiliar with the iron as you would expect.”
“Do you think it is a coincidence then?” Vittore asked. “Isn't this talent incredibly unusual?”
“The last one who possessed it was Aerik, a friend of Ben-gan. He died eighty years past, at the fall of Volane. Affinities with sevyric iron are rare indeed, but not impossible. Perhaps it is just time and chance.”
Another lengthy silence followed, and Orim could imagine Vittore sitting with the tips of his fingers pressed together, lips pursed, making a merchant's calculation of risk, and profit.
Eventually, Vittore cleared his throat. “Time and chance, perhaps, but my nose tells me there is more.”
“So what do you want from me?” Nee asked. “You could easily have learnt as much, or more, from a Genestuer scholar.”
“Two things,” Vittore said. “Set your spies and informers to look into this matter. Discretely. Find out everything you can about this boy, and the people he spends time with. Orim has only one pair of eyes, and I want this matter examined from every side.”
“And the other thing?” Nee asked.
“Assign a team to clean up after Orim — and Nee, use only trusted people. We must appear unconcerned in this business.”
The Ambassador
A MESSENGER ARRIVED while Palona sat in the morning room, working on an invitation list with Jaquit. Most of the invitees were obvious, and the first four sides of parchment had almost filled themselves. At the top were those she needed to cultivate and be polite to, further down friends, and those who could be relied on to be entertaining. The real challenge lay in juggling the last few places.
Her musings were interrupted a short while later when her uncle appeared in the summer room entrance. She could see the lines around his mouth and eyes were taut. Something in the message must have upset him.
“I will be having guests shortly,” he said. “Palona, would you kindly show them through to the meeting room when they arrive.”
Palona masked her disappointment. She had just been trying to decide whether inviting young Mebez or leaving him off the list would irritate Lord Rais more, and which she would find most entertaining.
“Will your guests be here very long?” she asked. “Should I arrange refreshments?”
“Hmm, yes, that would be good, and can you see to it we are not disturbed afterwards.”
He paused for a moment, looking at Jaquit. Palona could see him weighing up asking her to leave, then dismissing the idea. Jaquit had proved unfailingly loyal over the many years she'd been with Palona, but she was also deaf, so no inducements, however sweet or bitter, could persuade her to reveal a conversation she hadn't heard.
Master Urr arrived first. He ignored Palona, barely looking in her direction as he strode past on short sturdy legs. Resentment warred with relief. Urr had never been anything other than rude and dismissive, but she found him so entirely disgusting that the prospect of even feigning civility appealed to her as little as driving a paring knife under her fingernail.
Nepet the merchant entered the room as Urr left. When he saw Palona he gave a very good impression of being delighted to see her. Phar Salsa waddled into the room behind Nepet, his heavy jowls quivering as he chuckled. He looked like a man made from two, melded together into great soft folds of flesh, his long, sleeveless robes cascaded to the floor, caressing the creases and undulations of his body.
Nepet took her proffered hand and bowed, careful to ensure his lips merely hinted at brushing the rings on her fingers. “My lady, you grow more enchanting by the day.”
Palona smiled at him indulgently. “Nepet, you're a shameless flatterer.”
“Not so my lady, not so — I assure you.”
Palona appreciated Nepet despite his bland appearance. Square-faced with course features and an ungainly physique, he nevertheless wore the latest Farrul fashions from Ulpitor, kept his hair appropriately oiled in tight ringlets, and wore a subtle but pleasant perfume. And he could be very generous.
“My lady,” he said, leaning close to her and switching seamlessly to the conspiratorial form of common Ulpitorian. “I have the good fortune to have just this day received a shipment of purest tk'tk silk in a wonderful deep gentian, and a set of moon tears from Magadigar set in the finest silver filigree.”
“Now now Nepet, don't start keeping secrets from me,” Salsa warned.
Salsa flicked his swish at an imaginary fly, wafting an unpleasant odour of mingled citrus, mint and garlic in her direction. To Palona's ear, he sounded irritatingly petulant, but her uncle favoured the man so she stifled her annoyance, and forced a smile.
“Nepet is telling me about a fine silk he has acquired Master Salsa,” she said, switching back to common Volanian. “If it's as fine as supplied me for the parade—”
“Finer—” Nepet said.
“— then I will need to discuss with my uncle the importance in representing—”
“Please, there is no need to trouble your dear uncle,” Nepet said. “There should be nothing so base between us, my lady. Naturally, should you find my humble wares worthy, you would honour me by accepting a bolt of the cloth and a set of tears as a gift? Perhaps you might wish to have something fabulous made from it to wear for a public engagement?”
“You are a rare friend,” Palona said.
Salsa snorted. “Very rare indeed.”
“Perhaps then,” Nepet said, ignoring Salsa, “I can send a man once the festivities are concluded?”
The cunning hound, Palona thought. The top part of her invitation list lay uncovered on the small table next to her chair. She'd written it in Ulpitorian script to conceal its contents from inquisitive eyes, but of course Nepet had understood it perfectly.
Lord Garr, Vuko the high priest and Baldon arrived next. They were accompanied by Lord Bae, Baldon’s youngest brother, and also one of Garr's bravos, an ugly pinch-faced man with close-set eyes, random teeth and distinctive Kurbezh complexion.
The older men were grim faced, and although there was nothing unusual about that, Palona thought they also looked troubled. They greeted her with the sign of the three-faced god, three extended fingers to lips like a blown kiss. Lord Bae smiled, and with a quick glance through the summer room door, sighed elaborately and made a half-hearted attempt at the three-fingered greeting. The bravo stared at her and Jaquit with cool insolence, but passed behind Lord Bae in silence.
Following almost on their heels was the creepy Shuhrat Shoru. He wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve and leered at Palona, eyes travelling from the line of her neck to her knees, lingering on her breasts and hips. She could see in his hooded eyes not lust, but calculation. He, too, was a merchant of sorts, but traded nothing in Vergence, and Palona had heard the rumours which proclaimed him a slaver. She pointedly ignored him, turning her attention back to her list.
She didn't think her uncle liked Shuhrat much, but she understood he often had to deal with those he disliked. He'd explained to her, when she was old enough to understand, that his position as ambassador for Ulpitor required him to hide his true feelings, and deal in a pleasant manner even with animal-people. Soldiers mus
t master themselves for battle, he'd told her. Why should he expect lesser discipline of himself when he fought for his homeland using words?
Last to arrive were Murzel, a member of the inner circle of Kurbezh's Triumvirate, and Ibiz, the inquisitor. Murzel dressed in black, with the eyes of a dead man, and Ibiz's face looked like a skull with a thin sheet of velum stretched over it. These two Palona found chilling. She averted her eyes and, looking down in a display of humility, performing the three-fingered observance with care, lest she attract unwanted attention. To her relief neither paused, and she sat back in her seat near the door from where she could eavesdrop on the meeting.
“Are we all here … yes? So what is this matter that cannot wait?” Salsa asked in a peevish tone.
“Have you not heard about events at the admissions this morning?” Vuko asked.
“I've heard,” Salsa said, sounding irritable. “What's it to us?”
Urr made a choking sound. “The devil destroyed a dozen pieces of my work.”
“So some student has an accident and breaks a few of your knick-knacks?” Salsa said. “Surely this is a matter for the orders. Can't you discipline your own? I have important guild duties to perform tonight for the festival—”
“Eating and drinking,” Shuhrat said.
Shuhrat's voice had a sneering slippery quality that made Palona's skin crawl.
“—and for this I am dragged here? Can't this wait until after the Tranquillity?”
“Sevyric iron. He destroyed sevyric iron,” Urr shouted. “Do you not understand this!”
There was a clatter as something heavy landed on the table.
“If he's broken your toys, make some more. Isn't that what you do?” Salsa asked.
Lord Garr cleared his throat. “Friends, friends — in the name of the three, let us not divide one against the other. This reaches beyond the orders of the casters. Sevyric iron is a divine gift. It aids us in our quest to root out the perfidy and excesses that brought great Volane low—”
