City of Strife

by Claudie Arseneault

  He leaned against a nearby tower and closed his eyes. Cal and Larryn had assured him the guards would release Hasryan soon. He’d meant to lift his friend’s spirit with a surprise visit through the night, but he didn’t have it in him to return during the day. House Brasten was his family by name, a tool he’d accepted to use tonight, but he didn’t have the courage to reconnect with them and drag his past into the light.

  ✵

  Brune never did “take care of it.” Not on the first day, at any rate. Hasryan lay in his cell for hours, muscles throbbing from the beating. The guards had added punches to those already distributed by the tavern’s patrons until conscious thoughts slipped from Hasryan’s mind. He tried not to move, but he couldn’t escape the occasional spike of pain. He missed Cal. For his healing, yes, and also his cheerful company. A friend’s laugh helped him deal with hatred. The guards had stated he would receive no visitors, however. They always said that. It had never kept Brune away before. Nothing could stop her. Her prolonged absence brought the inevitable question: Was this wait a lesson?

  He could hear her in his mind. Don’t head-butt the nobles, Hasryan. You’re wasting my time and money. This stay in a cell wasn’t his first, but every time before, Brune had reminded him he was lucky to be her best assassin and extracted him without delays. He liked that better. It meant she trusted him to carry out any job she handed to him despite how often he got in trouble. No one else relied on him that way, not even Larryn and Cal. The former had learned to handle his own problems, and the latter never had any. They were friends—a miracle in itself—but they didn't entrust their future success to him. Brune did, and would again. Not to mention no one else knew his real job.

  She would get him out. It might take longer than usual, but she would.

  When guards fetched him from his cell the following day, he wasn’t scared. They dragged him to a windowless room containing a table and two chairs and shackled him to one of them. Its cold seeped through his pants, and Hasryan shivered. They hung the lamp on a wall, out of reach, and left him without explanation. Hasryan didn’t need one. He had seen interrogation rooms before. What could they want to ask, though? He’d smashed that arrogant prick’s nose with his forehead, and since the man had a title while Hasryan had black skin, he had landed in a cell. A straightforward story which he had no intention of denying.

  A woman entered, clad in the Isandor Sapphire Guards’ livery: a simple white and grey outfit with a light-blue cape behind. She wore no armour, but dark-blue threads decorated her collar, sleeves, and the bottom of her cape. Not a regular guard, then, but an investigator. He straightened up, more alert. Tavern fights should be below her. Her serious smile as she sat on the chair opposite of him didn’t alleviate his stress. Deep-set eyes studied him as though she could parse out his soul from the get-go, and Hasryan swallowed hard. He needed to size her up, make the most of what little information she presented to him. Her confident bearing indicated she believed herself at an advantage, and her firm strides implied she knew what she wanted. She expected a quick win. Was she an outsider? Her darker skin and its rich ochre undertone marked her as a descendant from the Phong Peninsula—a land far to the southeast in which Hasryan had never set foot.

  “Who’s your friend in House Brasten?” Though her voice was sharp, her Allorian was smooth. From the region, then. She had probably lived in Isandor longer than him.

  Hasryan tilted his head to the side. “No one? What do they even have to do with this?”

  “Nothing, apparently.” She shrugged it off. Hasryan didn’t press the point. Good interrogators gave no more information than they meant to. “You’re in trouble.”

  Hasryan crushed his mounting dread and snorted at her declaration. In trouble for that head-butt? They both knew better. Her smile didn’t budge, and in deliberate movements, she leaned to the side, retrieved his wave-patterned dagger from her bag, and set it on the table. Hasryan’s mirth died. The blade’s specific shape was his trademark in the underworld. He couldn’t resist using it even though it created distinctive wounds. Brune’s trust mattered too much, and she usually arrived before they looked into the dagger or forced them to let it go. Her delay might complicate matters.

  “Is this yours?” the investigator asked.

  “Depends. Which gets me into more trouble? If I stole it, or if I had it all along?”

  He smirked, but she tapped the blade again, sending sparks of electricity down its length.

  “Is it yours or not?”

  Hasryan spread his arms and shrugged. “Lady, I don’t even know your name. Why would I answer your incriminating questions?”

  Time to fool around and waste hours. Sooner or later, Brune would get him out. His job was to say nothing before then. Nothing important, anyway. Hasryan enjoyed a good banter, even more so with the city’s guards. His ability to drag out a conversation infuriated them.

  “It’s Sora Sharpe. Please answer. I don’t have all day.”

  She flicked her long black braid out of the way. Stiff tone, irritated scowl, angry glare: perfect for Hasryan.

  “I do. A lengthy day in a dark cell. Although I’ll admit, this hell hole isn’t much better.” Hasryan leaned back, his smirk steady. “You’re a lady. You should find a nice decoration to brighten up this place.”

  “Charming. Your sexism is an appreciated change from my favourite colleague’s repeated transphobia. I’m glad the bigot club is diversifying a little.” Without missing a beat, she picked up his dagger and stuffed it back into her bag. “An interrogation room isn’t meant for comfort, and I care nothing for decorations. Not everyone follows the stereotypes shoved upon them by gender or race, although you seem determined to excel in what dark elves are reputed for. Congratulations, Mister Fel’ethier: you are the prime suspect in a dozen murders, one of which is so old, it implies you were a killer before you were an adult.”

  Hasryan laughed, but his bitterness seeped through the mirth. How could she understand? He had become a killer long before he was an adult, or even a teenager. They’d forced the decision on him before he could have any grasp of the world and its cruel workings. Kill or be sacrificed. As far as he was concerned, Sora Sharpe could shove her righteous anger deep up her ass. She had no right to judge his life. Hasryan trailed his fingers on the table, keeping his cool.

  “Which murder would that be, if I may enquire? I lose track, you see. Dark elves don’t count their crimes.”

  His crimes, no, but he could name every assassination contract since arriving in Isandor. Brune didn’t need people killed often, and even less now that she controlled the mercenary business. He asked to fuel her righteous anger, not satisfy his curiosity.

  “Lady Ilyana Allastam, born Carrington.”

  “What?”

  Hasryan jerked forward, pulling the chains on his wrists taut with a clang. Anyone who’d lived in Isandor during the last decade had experienced the scars caused by Lady Allastam’s death. Her husband, the current Head of the Allastam House, had blamed everything on another family and launched the first bloody feud in over a century. Instead of attacking their opponent’s trades, nobles outright killed each other and annihilated any lowborn remotely linked to the enemy house. Hasryan and Brune had arrived in Isandor less than two months beforehand. He’d been sixteen, eager to help. The feud had been an incredible boon to their business and had allowed the Crescent Moon Mercenaries to get ahead.

  But he hadn’t killed Lady Allastam. He had been planting evidence in another house, thrilled by this first job under Brune’s command. How could they blame him for one of the rare assassinations he’d had no part in? A smile danced on Sharpe’s lips. She enjoyed his surprise. The investigator caught his gaze and held it while she set her palms on the table.

  “You heard me,” she said. “You killed Lady Allastam with the very distinctive dagger we were discussing. The wounds match. You should use less conspicuous weapons.”

  Hasryan tilted his head to the side. Nice try, b
ut her affirmation didn’t hold. “I didn’t even have it at the time.”

  “So it is yours.”

  Sora Sharpe straightened with a victorious smile and set a hand on her hip. Hasryan bit a curse back and forced a low chuckle out instead. He shouldn’t have underestimated her. He was too used to angry guards with brains blunter than their clubs. Perhaps a little name-dropping was called for, to shake her confidence.

  “Well played. Yes, it’s mine. It’s a gift from my boss. You might know her? Her name’s Brune.” And just like that, Sora Sharpe’s mirth vanished. Everyone in Isandor’s Sapphire Guards understood they couldn’t touch Brune. Hasryan tapped on the table with his index finger. “You can ask her about the dagger. I’m sure she’ll come by soon enough.”

  “Don’t think you’ll get out that easy. I’m not letting you go.”

  Hasryan’s eyebrows shot up. Did she believe that for even one second? He’d received threats of justice from frustrated guards before. She could try to keep him inside, but in the long run he was safe. Brune would never abandon him. She relied on him, and he on her.

  After a final glare and an unconvincing “You’ll see,” Sharpe headed toward the door. As she touched the knob, Hasryan cleared his throat. She spun on her heels, her expression a mix of anger and hope. He smirked.

  “I’ll enjoy your clinging to me!”

  The energy she put into slamming the door warmed his heart.

  Jaeger hated the slump in Diel Dathirii’s shoulders, the nervous way he pulled at the skin near his nails, and the growing bags under his eyes. Since the Myrians had unleashed their High Priest on the local shops, burning one of them to a crisp and destroying merchandise in others, there had been a constant stream of urgent letters to the Dathirii Tower. Requests for protection and compensation, for the most part, but a growing number of them declared unilateral disaffiliation with House Dathirii. Local business owners rarely had anything to fall back upon. Their shops were their lives, their trades. Why would they risk them for a single partner? Jaeger had spent most of the morning separating the different types of messages to give them an idea while Diel paced around his office. As soon as the steward set the last letter down, Diel spun on his heels to face him.

  “How many?”

  Sometimes there were questions Jaeger wished he didn’t have to answer. “Half of them are bailing out, milord.”

  “Half?”

  Jaeger pressed his lips and nodded. When Diel plopped onto his desk with a groan, a pang of guilt stabbed at the steward. If only they had more positive news.

  “We’ll have to do better,” Diel said. “First, let’s write these partners and convince them we can, in fact, protect them. The Myrians caught us off guard, but Kellian’s men are competent. They don’t have to leave.”

  “I’ll have drafts ready.” Jaeger doubted they would change their minds, but he picked up the pile of letters. They had to try. Isandor had always put a lot of emphasis on the image you projected rather than the wealth you truly had. The founding families had rivaled in ingenious tower designs to demonstrate how well-off they were, and today the noble houses competed as to who had the most beautiful garden. In trade wars as in everything else, half the battle was in appearances. Defection by so many of their partners would be horrible for their image. “What of the noble families?”

  “We’ve … talked.” Diel’s lack of enthusiasm killed Jaeger’s feeble hope. “None of them are eager to help.”

  He reached for the long black quill on his desk, picked it up, and started spinning it between his fingers. Diel stared at the feather, absorbed in his thoughts and refusing to look up at Jaeger. Not a good sign, if allies made themselves sparse so early in the fight.

  “Traditional alliances won’t work, then,” Jaeger said. “Thankfully, you’ve never been inclined to stick with traditional methods. You’ll find another way.”

  “Will I?” he asked with a soft scowl. “Myria is not one of us. It is an Empire, and its enclave has financial support well worth a hundred of our Houses. I cannot win alone against such a force. Neither will anyone else once their turn comes. And it will come.” Diel lowered the quill and met Jaeger’s eyes at last. “We’re a stepping stone for them—the easiest way to access the East. Sooner or later, they’ll want complete control.”

  “Appeal to their sense of independence.”

  “I fear they’ve lost the true meaning of the word. But perhaps …” His gaze unfocused, he turned toward the window, muttering to himself, ideas churning behind his intense eyes. Jaeger waited, allowing Diel’s thoughts to simmer and coalesce into a precise plan. “Pen a letter to the Heads of House Brasten, House Almanza, and House Carrington. Tell them I have a coalition proposal for them. A long-term one that could benefit Isandor for decades to come. I’ll write up the details.”

  “A coalition?”

  Diel smiled, the radiant expression washing away his lines of worry. A plan had taken form in his mind—another of his brilliant, out-of-the-box political schemes, perhaps. The kind Jaeger hammered into concrete steps and measures. He was about to ask for more information when a sharp knock at the door interrupted him.

  Years of service had taught Jaeger to identify who sought entrance by the sound of their knock. Every Dathirii had a signature knock. Lord Kellian gave three taps, all the exact same strength, all separated by the same timespan. Branwen, on the other hand, enjoyed creating an almost musical sequence on the door. It varied from one day to another, but it always carried a certain lively quality. Garith’s surprised with its soberness, considering who called: he never did more than two quick taps. Lady Camilla’s was so inviting it made you want to come out, instead of letting her in, and Jaeger would readily admit it was one of his favourites.

  As he turned toward the door, Jaeger wished this particular sequence of four snappy knocks belonged instead to Diel’s aunt. Lady Camilla would never produce such a sound, however. Behind that door stood Lord Yultes, the family’s second most despicable figure, who knocked as if the door should never have been closed, and it was a personal insult to have found it in such a position. Jaeger looked at Diel, half-hoping he would ask him to turn Yultes away. Instead, the Head of the House nodded.

  Withholding a sigh, Jaeger crossed the room and let him in.

  Lord Yultes Dathirii strode in without sparing a glance at the steward. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he tried to compensate for his short stature by squaring his shoulders and pinching his lips haughtily. Yultes had mastered the art of looking down at the world, no matter the actual angle of his neck. Unlike Lord Hellion, who directed his sense of superiority and arrogance at everyone equally, Yultes’ animosity had targeted Jaeger since the steward’s very first day within the family. Etiquette prevented Jaeger from a proper riposte most of the time—etiquette and his unwillingness to tire Diel, for whom the infighting was draining.

  “Urgent news, milord.”

  Yultes should have waited for Diel to address him first, even if only with a simple greeting. Such a breach was unlike Yultes, and Jaeger found himself studying him more carefully. Unlike most Dathirii, his hair wasn’t golden, but pale blonde, like sand too long under the sun. Yultes had joined the family through his brother’s marriage and was one of the handful of Dathirii with no direct blood relation to others. His posture seemed strained, and although his high cheekbones had always created an organized set of judgmental angles, today his cheeks were even more hollow than usual. Diel must have noticed, because his expression shifted from barely-hidden irritation to concern.

  “What is it?”

  “These are grave tidings. Perhaps they’d best be heard in private.”

  Of course. Jaeger stiffened as Yultes implied he should leave the room. While Diel did have the occasional private audience, it was most often with lords of other families.

  “Do they concern your personal life, Lord Yultes?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then Jaeger stays.”

  D
iel met Yultes’ gaze and held it. Grateful warmth spread through Jaeger’s body, and he was careful to conceal his pleasure behind a professional mask. Leaving was a waste of time anyway. Diel always shared important news afterwards, a fact Yultes knew quite well. The other elf threw one annoyed glance at Jaeger but decided not to argue over his presence.

  “None of this is official yet, but House Allastam was so shaken, I would lend credit to this rumour. It will be all over the city by now. Yesterday evening, they arrested Lady Allastam’s assassin. Formal accusations should be announced this afternoon.”

  The buzz in Jaeger’s head seemed loud and intrusive in the silence that followed. Lady Allastam had been assassinated ten years ago, and her gruesome death had sparked Isandor’s first blood feud since its establishment. No one spoke of it anymore, as if mentioning Lord Allastam’s brutal retribution upon House Freitz could rekindle the fight. If Isandor’s guards had found out who was responsible, the dead might finally rest, letting the city put an important part of its history behind itself.

  “This assassin,” Diel said at last, “is he …?”

  Diel’s voice was low and hesitant, as though he didn’t dare ask the question on everybody’s mind.

  “Hired by the Freitz?” Yultes completed. “I’m afraid we have no idea, and may never do so. He is a member of the Crescent Moon, and it is unknown what Brune will do about this accusation.”

  “Were the Crescent Moon already in town a decade ago?”