“I don’t care!” Gorog’s fist banged on the table, sloshing the amber liquid in the decanter. “If Kadar gains in these discussions, he’ll want more the next time, and he’ll forget himself, forget his place. Tamas will watch what works for Kadar, and he’ll do the same, and then I’ll be losing ground twice as fast.”
He shook his head. “No. We stop this before it starts, before they start thinking too highly of themselves and their cleverness. We don’t give up anything. In fact, we press for more, so that if we keep what we have now, Kadar and Tamas can be grateful they didn’t lose what they had. I’ll see those two slimy sons of bitches kneel, before this is over.”
Machison smiled and lifted his glass in salute. “I like how you think.”
“Spare me the sycophancy. You stand to benefit—richly—from my good fortune. Win me this, and Aliyev will most assuredly bestow some of Kadar’s or Tamas’s lands to me as a reward. And as I rise, so do you.”
“Everything is as we discussed. The pieces are all on the gameboard.”
“Don’t leave it all up to the negotiations,” Gorog said, knocking back the last of his whiskey. “We can use the monsters against Kadar. Keep him busy, distracted, handling problems from his Guilds. Keep Blackholt targeting the Guilds that owe their loyalty to him. Kadar will know that he and his interests are the real targets.”
“I believe he is already quite clear on that matter,” Machison said. “Someone put an arrow in my carriage as I left the Crown Prince’s villa tonight. Not meant to do real harm, or he’d have hit my horse or driver.” Machison shook his head. “No. It was a warning, though my people will tell it as a foiled attack on the Crown Prince. I believe it was Kadar, giving me a heads up that I’d best not leave him out in the cold.”
Gorog regarded him for a moment. “That’s unacceptable. I’ll retaliate in kind, against one of Kadar’s proxies. Let him know his message was received and rejected.”
Machison’s left hand balled into a fist. I am tired of being anyone’s proxy. “I thought you’d want to know,” he said in a carefully neutral voice.
“I’ll take care of it,” Gorog said, moving toward the door. “And I shall look forward to hearing how tomorrow’s reception goes. Remember—your fortunes are tied to mine. You know what I expect of you. See that it happens.”
“Yes, my lord.” Machison watched Gorog stalk from the room. His stomach knotted in a mixture of predatory anticipation, and a vague uneasiness. He understood Gorog’s desire to punish Kadar and his insistence on keeping his rivals not merely weakened but humbled. But it was Gorog’s greed that left Machison uneasy, though he stood to benefit. Easy enough for Gorog to give orders. He doesn’t have to handle the negotiation. Garenoth may not be so easy to persuade.
Then again, I’m in so deep, I have no choice. We will rise—or fall—together.
“AS ALWAYS, THE Lord Mayor of Ravenwood is a fine host.” Ambassador Jothran’s voice held warmth his eyes lacked. “Quite a nice touch, having the Crown Prince show up to greet us. In case we might have forgotten that he is your patron.”
“Always an honor to have Crown Prince Aliyev grace us with his presence,” Machison replied smoothly. “And how could he not, given the importance of the upcoming negotiations?” Machison was certain that the servant attending Jothran was, in fact, a hedgewitch in disguise, brought along to watch for poison. The news of Vrioni’s death had quickly spread. “I hope the wine is to your liking, and the food to your taste?”
“Quite.” Jothran’s ample girth and heavy jowls suggested that he refused few indulgences. His frock coat was trimmed in gold, and golden rings gleaming with gems adorned his fingers. Machison wondered if beneath the finery, he also wore a light mail shirt, just in case.
“I hear you keep a clear head in chaotic situations,” Jothran added. “That’s commendable.”
“All part of the office,” Machison replied. Comes with practice.
“The Itaran ambassador doesn’t seem to be having a good time,” Jothran said, inclining his head toward a thin, hawk-faced man standing with a few others off to one side. Ambassador Kiril always looked as if his dinner had disagreed with him.
“Any time there are negotiations, there will be worries about terms and favoritism,” Machison replied with a shrug. While the Lord Mayors of the negotiating city-states and their ambassadors handled the actual agreement, the League’s dignitaries descended on the event for the chance to lobby for their own interests. And, should talks run into difficulty, other ambassadors would have no hesitation about rushing in to offer their ‘advice.’ “Some have more cause to worry than others,” Jothran said. The allied city-states traded with each other, and pooled resources to mount trading expeditions to unallied kingdoms. While the League members benefitted from their alliance, they were also jealous of any advantage or preference. That push-pull dynamic led to the League’s founding long ago—formalizing the understanding that working together, the city-states had all the resources they needed, but opposing each other, they would quickly fall to ruin.
“Tell me, is there truth to what I’ve heard? That Itara and Calvot are at odds?” Machison asked. The reality of the situation was that for nearly all of the League’s two-hundred-year existence, only its members’ greed surpassed their aggression. Without the League, the city-states might well have battled each other into ruin.
Jothran rolled his eyes. “Is it a surprise? Those two states fight like they were a badly arranged marriage. And yet, they remain within the League because they know the benefits they reap.” He shrugged. “Let them quarrel. While they’re distracted, the rest of us gain business.”
Machison looked around the room. Barring an epic failure or exceptional public disgrace, each of the ambassadors would hold his or her position for life. The strength of the alliances among the League often depended more on long-standing personal bonds than on the formalities of treaties and contracts. Knowing they would be dealing with one another for decades tempered the ambassadors’ reactions—most of the time. Meaning that the real warfare among them is carried out by proxies, like assassins and witches, a carefully orchestrated system of tit for tat.
“Has the Osteronian ambassador had much to say about the upcoming negotiations?” Machison asked. “Theirs will be the next treaty up for renewal.”
If the new agreement between Garenoth and Ravenwood retained its current, mutually favorable terms, the other League members would have to jostle with each other to improve their own standing. But if Ravenwood’s terms with Garenoth worsened at all, or the negotiations fell through, the other city-states all stood to improve their ranking. Murder had been done for less.
Jothran chuckled. “Oh, they’ll be watching, all right. Ravenwood is a valuable trading partner, and Ostero’s mines need buyers like your smiths.”
“Certainly all of the League states benefit from Ostero’s rich mines. And all have smiths of their own.”
“None that rival Ravenwood’s,” Jothran replied. It was true. Osteronian ore was the purest mined in the League, but the skill of Ravenwood’s smiths made their forgings worth double those of the other states.
“Ah, but Garenoth’s farmers are the envy of the League,” Machison said. “Along with types of timber that won’t grow here.”
Being the favored trading partner meant getting the first quality exports and assurance that quantities stipulated would be fully met before those of less-favored partners, even if that meant those lowest on the list did without.
Jothran had the good grace to feign humility. “That’s what makes the League, isn’t it? Each with its advantages, balancing our deficits.” He dropped his voice. “One of the reasons we value our relationship with Ravenwood so highly. Your state is known for keeping its word. Unlike some.”
This was where the true politics came into play, navigating the closely-woven web of conflicting interests, large personalities, petty grievances, and thwarted ambitions. Aside from the quality of its exports, Garenoth’
s favored-partner status was so highly soughtafter because Garenoth prided itself on keeping to—or exceeding— its contractual obligations. In short, they were reliable in every way.
“Tell me,” Machison said, discreetly steering Jothran to a corner where they might talk more privately. “Are any of the other states particularly situated to benefit if we fail to come to a successful resolution?”
Jothran took his meaning immediately. “Enough to kill, you mean?”
Machison shrugged. “Such passion is not unknown.” United by need; divided by greed.
“If you’re asking, ‘Do I believe one of the other League states had a hand in the unfortunate death of your Guild Master,’ I would suggest that historical rivals remain as dangerous as ever.” Jothran paused and glanced around to assure himself that they would not be overheard. “A man in your position might want to take a closer look at his allies, before hunting for enemies.” With that, the ambassador drifted into the crowd.
He’s as much as said Kadar’s to blame for the archer. Things are truly out of hand if the Merchant Princes’ proxy skirmishes have become the gossip of our League rivals, Machison thought.
He made his rounds, greeting each of the ambassadors and making small talk.
“Tell me, Lord Mayor, what is Ravenwood’s policy concerning the Wanderers?” Ambassador Arlan from the city-state of Morletta asked. “Have you guards enough to patrol all of the city?”
“You must have a reason for asking, beyond mere curiosity.”
Arlan shrugged. “The Wanderers have seemed more active of late in Morletta, and in Kasten and Sarolinia, our neighbor states. We’ve kept their presence from impacting trade in Morletta by doubling the number of guards, driving them out of the city, killing the ones that refuse to leave. Still, having to deal with Wanderers is far better than what befell Kasten after their negotiations failed and their League rank fell. Surely you’ve heard that they’ve fallen behind in their tribute?”
“Oh?”
Arlan paused to sip his drink. “Meddling from witches and Wanderers and hunters has become a scourge in Kasten. Warehouses have been burned, a ship or two was scuttled, and orders went unfilled. Monsters have attacked in droves, if you can believe the stories, more than anyone has seen in years. Something of a bloodbath, I’ve heard tell. Many, many deaths. You can guess how that impacted Kasten’s shipments. The League has given them six months to make good on their tribute and increase their exports, or they’ve threatened to carve Kasten up between Morletta and Sarolinia.” A slight smile touched his lips.
“And what of Sarolinia? I assume they had problems with the… infestations as well.”
“They saw Kasten fall into chaos,” Arlan said. “I’m sure Sarolinia took their fate as a cautionary tale; their reactions to the monsters and the Wanderers appear highly effective. In fact, with Kasten’s trade having fallen away, both Morletta and Sarolinia stand to benefit. The High Lords and Crown Prince of Kasten are under house arrest on order of the League. Confidentially, I’m amazed Ambassador Vittir hasn’t been recalled and replaced.” He chuckled. “It’s been an interesting spectacle.”
“Why replace Vittir?” Machison asked. “Wasn’t he here in Ravenwood when the problems arose?” Vittir was unlikely to have been home to Kasten in months, perhaps a year or more.
“Vittir’s raised a few eyebrows, making accusations,” Arlan confided. “You’d think an ambassador would be more circumspect, but he seems to be taking the fall of Kasten’s fortunes personally.”
“What kind of accusations?” Machison pressed. Something about Arlan’s story did not ring true.
The ambassador shrugged. “The kind a man concocts when he’s desperate to deny the truth. He doesn’t want to believe that the mayor they supported brought this all on them, so he sees conspiracies from the League, from other city-states, from foreign kingdoms—even the gods. Some noise about the monsters being sent because Kasten couldn’t pay its gold, to keep the Balance.” He shook his head. “Rubbish, all of it.” He finished his drink and regarded his empty glass with a sigh. “If you don’t have anything to add to the tale, I think I’ll excuse myself and get another drink.”
Arlan’s words stayed in Machison’s mind as he continued to mingle. Across the room, Vittir was hemmed in by the Torquonan and Calvottian ambassadors, who were besieging him with questions he obviously did not wish to answer. The drunken Potronian ambassador, in the meantime, was trying to seduce the serving wenches, and the Arlan and Sarolinian ambassadors had struck up a conversation with Halloran, Ravenwood’s ambassador.
Machison looked out over the reception with a swell of pride. The room conveyed prosperity and order, the liquor was excellent, and the food was befitting of his guests’ station. Jorgeson ghosted in and out of the room discreetly, checking to make sure everything was as it should be. Musicians moved to take their places on a dais at the side of the room. The Lord Mayor reached into a pocket and withdrew a soft lump of wax, rolling it between his fingers until it was warm and pliable, then separated it into two pieces and plugged his ears, in preparation for the magic that was to come.
Machison’s thoughts drifted back to Vittir. Who stood to prosper from Kasten’s downfall? Morletta and Sarolinia. Were they just fortunate, or did their Merchant Princes and Crown Princes have a hand in causing Kasten’s misfortune? Machison felt certain that Kasten’s sudden reversal of fortune had been helped along by the enemies of its rulers. Whoever was behind Kasten’s troubles, they’ve given us a gift, though I doubt that was their intention. Once we’ve secured the terms with Garenoth, Itara and Sarolinia will be weakened, and the rest of the ambassadors will go home with their tails between their legs.
His guests drifted toward the musicians, though Machison could hear nothing with the wax in his ears. He glanced toward Jorgeson and the guards, standing toward the front of the room, and Jorgeson gave a minute nod to confirm that all was ready. Jorgeson and the guards also had ear plugs, as did the musicians, who were mages under Blackholt’s direction.
The dignitaries fell silent, entranced by the music as the flute played a skirling descant. A few of the ambassadors swayed to the tune, while others tapped their toes. Even dour Kirill permitted himself a smile. The magic woven into the music worked its spell. Machison watched their expressions as all other thoughts fled the guests’ minds, so that only the music remained. Nothing else seemed important. Nothing but the music and the compelling, beautiful flute with its hidden magic, which played on for at least a quarter of a candlemark.
Abruptly, the music came to an end. Machison removed the wax from his ears. A bloodcurdling scream sounded from the corridor beyond the reception hall. Another scream sounded, and the ambassadors and their staff came back to themselves with panicked expressions.
One of his guards came running up to him. “M’lord, come quickly! It’s Ambassador Vittir. He’s dead.”
Chapter Fifteen
WHEN THE TRIPLE knock came at the back door of the workshop, Corran made his excuses to Rigan and Kell as quickly as he could, then took off to meet up with the hunters. His lies sounded thin even to his own ears; Rigan and Kell would not believe him much longer.
He wound his way through back alleys, keeping a watchful eye for guards. A movement in the shadows made him freeze, weapon at the ready.
“Put down your knife, boy. I mean you no harm.” An old woman stepped out of the darknesss. A colored rag bound up her hair, though wiry gray strands straggled from beneath the covering. Her dark eyes flashed with cunning. “I just wanted to have a look at you.”
“Why?”
“I’ve seen you in my dreams,” the old woman replied, taking a step closer, undeterred by Corran’s raised blade. Her utter confidence unnerved him, and the idea that a witch-woman recognized him made his gut tighten.
“What do I matter to you?” Corran maintained the distance between them, even as the woman stepped toward him.
“You have caught Eshtamon’s attention; and we
are his people. Our blood runs in your veins.”
“My mother had Wanderer blood.”
She nodded. “Yet our magic did not come to you. Such is fate. You chose the blade.”
“I do what I have to do to survive.”
“As with my people.” She gestured to the sigil on the wall behind her, which began to glow.
“Is that a curse sign?” Corran asked.
She laughed, a dry, husky sound. “No, not a curse. The world is broken. We do what we can to steady the Balance.”
“By killing people?”
She leveled her gaze at him, a cold smile on her lips. “Is that what you believe?”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
The old woman gestured, and the sigil faded. “We are an old race, Eshtamon’s people, cursed to find no peace. Yet we endure. We cannot restore the Balance, but we can slow the drift.”
“Right now, the Balance isn’t my concern,” Corran said. “I’ve got monsters to fight.”
She did not appear surprised. “Take this.” The Wanderer woman held out a jar. “Goat’s blood, mixed with a special powder made from leaves and roots. You will need it to kill the azrikk.”
“What’s an azrikk?”
“The thing you go to fight,” she replied, as he gingerly accepted her gift. “They have existed since time began, servants of the Dark Gods. Coat your blade with this mixture. It is poison to the azrikk. Without it, your fight will be harder, and far costlier.”
“Why are you helping me?”
“Because you have a role to play,” the old woman answered, stepping back toward the shadows. “I have seen it in my dreams.”
The squeal of rats took Corran’s attention for just a second, and when he looked back, the old woman was gone.
Corran kept a tight grip on the jar and tried to still his thoughts as he wove through the shadows and alleys to the meeting point.
“We’ve got to pick our battles or recruit more hunters. There aren’t enough of us to fight everything,” Corran grumbled as he caught up with Calfon and Mir. “I won’t be able to lie to my brothers forever, and I need to spend some time doing my job if we’re to eat.”
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