“Wake me if anything changes.” Rigan glanced at Corran’s sleeping form.
“I will. Now—you can best help Corran by getting some sleep and letting the poultices do their job. I’ve got your back.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
“I EXPECTED A better showing.” Crown Prince Aliyev’s disapproval was clear both in his tone and the cold appraisal in his eyes.
“Our spies have kept us informed,” Machison replied. “Sarolinia and Kasten have the most to gain by interfering in the negotiations. Jorgeson’s confirmed that Kadar or his representatives have been in touch through intermediaries. We’re certain Sarolinia was behind the attack on the ambassador from Garenoth, and that Kasten had something to do with the recall of the Itaran ambassador. We’ve countered their efforts, and the negotiations are moving forward.”
“Whispers are reaching King Rellan that the agreement is in danger,” Aliyev said, as if he had not heard Machison. “He has no personal leaning toward either Kadar or Gorog—and less toward Tamas—so long as money flows into Ravenwood. It’s of no interest to him which of the Merchant Princes prospers more, and I thought I made it clear to you that I was not willing to endanger the agreement for the benefit of any one party.”
He turned to look at Machison with a cold stare. “The King is likely to see any threat to the League’s stability—or its prosperity— to be an attack on his person. I have been warned that Rellan is… concerned, and watching the situation very closely.”
“The situation is under control.” Machison met Aliyev’s gaze, matching his unyielding stare.
“That’s not what I hear.”
“From Blackholt?” Machison gave a snort. “The man is insane, drunk on his own importance.”
“Have a care. His power is real.”
“And he dribbles out its benefits to make his patrons beg for his support,” Machison grated. “The king’s addiction to using highpowered blood mages is what’s causing the real problem.”
“A matter of opinion, and beside the point,” Aliyev snapped. “Ravenwood needs to maintain its ranking. This agreement must be completed successfully. I will not permit squabbling over a few percentages of profit to undo the fortunes of the entire city-state. I thought I was putting my best man and my most powerful blood witch on this issue.” His voice was low and cold. “Was I mistaken?”
“I won’t fail you, m’lord. But I am not sure of Blackholt’s loyalties—to you or to me.”
“What makes you doubt them?”
“Blackholt’s choice of monsters, and his timing and location of the strikes, have not followed my direction as they should,” Machison replied. “I believe he’s actively working against me. He’s arrogant and sloppy, and it’s given the hunters and witches an opening they were all too happy to exploit.”
“That’s your problem, not mine. And not Blackholt’s.”
Machison seethed. “Perhaps Blackholt sees no reason to avoid mistakes if he pays no consequence when they’re made. He fears no one—not even you.”
Aliyev fixed him with a glare. “Then he is a fool.” He turned away. “I will consider what you’ve said. But have a care: your performance has not inspired confidence.”
“The trade talks with Garenoth continue without interruption, still moving in your favor despite the efforts of our enemies,” Machison promised. All Aliyev and the King really care about is gold in their pockets. They’ll have that—and Gorog will keep his edge, which means gold for me as well.
“The meetings have continued, but hardly without interruption,” Aliyev corrected. “And while the monsters and the guards have been active, the Balance is askew. You are behind on the Cull.”
“We’ve done everything we promised, kept our part of the bargain,” Machison shot back. “Kept the commoners in line and frightened.”
Anger flashed in Aliyev’s eyes. “It’s not enough. If we fail to keep the Balance, earning the ire of a few Guild Masters or Merchant Princes will be nothing in comparison to the consequences.”
“The Cull is Blackholt’s job. My guards have done their part. Seeing these negotiations succeed is my priority,” Machison countered. “They’re going well—why else would Kadar send an assassin after me?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Just a few days ago, an assassin attacked me in my rooms. He got close enough to cut me with his knife. I fought him and he fled, but he left behind this.” Machison withdrew the coin with Kadar’s face on it and held it up. Traces of his blood still darkened the stamped metal.
“This… is none of your concern,” Aliyev said finally. Machison could practically see the wheels turning in the Crown Prince’s mind as he assessed the possible reasons for the attack.
“Really? Because it felt like my concern, my lord, when the knife nearly opened up my ribs,” Machison snapped. Aliyev’s reaction told him that the Crown Prince suspected a proxy attack, perhaps related to other affairs.
“Despite our differences of opinion, I have no desire to lose a valuable asset.”
“Should I expect future visits?” Machison ground out, teeth clenched. I do not want to be a bone pulled between two hungry dogs. “If so, I’ll alert my guards.”
“Leave Kadar to me.” Aliyev sounded weary. “I led him to believe he stood to gain ground in this negotiation. Obviously, he doubts that, and is trying to remind me of what he sees as our agreement. You were… a convenient way to leave a message.”
“Perhaps in the future, a letter might be preferred?” Machison’s tone barely hid his fury. “Because if a brigand appears in my rooms again, I’ll make sure his head is on a pike by the city gates come morning, no matter who he’s beholden to.”
“Point taken. I’ll see that you’re not inconvenienced again.” Aliyev poured himself a drink. “And since I’m safeguarding your life, use the time wisely. The Guilds are restless.”
“They’re always restless.”
“The Guilds are tired of petitioning the Merchant Princes, and have started sending their representatives to me. I turn them away, of course, and send them back to yammer at Gorog or the others, but it’s an almost daily complaint from one Guild or another, about losing their members to the monsters, or seeing the city go up in flames.”
“You heard ‘almost daily’ from the Guilds before Blackholt began manipulating the monsters,” Machison said. “Some of those Guilds are seeing retribution for shielding hunters among their own. A word from you to your witch might make him less sloppy with his magic.”
Aliyev shrugged. “You wanted Blackholt; you control him.”
For just an instant, Machison saw a glint of fear in the man’s eyes. Perhaps you can’t completely control him, either. I took the gift of Blackholt’s abilities as a gesture of support. Did Aliyev set up both Blackholt and me to fail so that he could eliminate two ‘liabilities’ without repercussion, and draw Gorog out into a vulnerable position at the same time?
“You—and Blackholt—serve at my pleasure,” Aliyev said. “Get the city, the witch, and the negotiations under control and don’t embarrass me, or I will be forced to take measures. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, my lord. Completely.” Long experience kept Machison’s tone neutral, but he was certain Aliyev had read the full extent of his resentment.
BACK AT THE Lord Mayor’s palace, Machison restrained himself from pacing only by remembering how much the wound from the assassin’s blade still ached. Every time he winced, it stoked his anger at being Aliyev’s proxy.
“What of the men you sent after the hunters?” he snapped at Jorgeson, not bothering to hide his surly mood.
“They were only partially successful.”
“Explain.”
“I sent the guards after the men we were able to identify as hunters—the undertaker, the lamp merchant’s son, and several others. Their orders were to capture the witch and the hunters and burn their shops.”
“And?”
Jorges
on’s lips pressed tightly together. “The men set the fires. A few of the shops were saved, but still badly damaged. The warning was quite clear.”
“But the men—”
“Escaped,” Jorgeson replied curtly, eyes straight ahead, standing rigidly at attention. “We traced their movements and concluded they’d taken shelter Below.”
“Then get them! Damn the agreement, I want those hunters!”
Jorgeson waited out Machison’s temper, remaining silent until the Lord Mayor had time to rein in his anger. “Our… arrangement with Below is based on practicality,” he said with deference. “As we’ve discussed, we don’t have the strength in numbers. Send a few, they’re unlikely to come back out. Send in a regiment, and they’re likely to start a war, one we’re ill-prepared to win at this moment. They’re already on edge after the attack on the witches.”
Machison clenched and unclenched his fist. “Are you saying we just let them go?”
Jorgeson shook his head. “You misunderstand me, m’lord. We don’t send guards. We send assassins. We hunt the hunters.”
A smile quirked at the corner of Machison’s lips. “Go on.”
“I’ve contacted my spies in the Guilds. The hunters that fled were among the most skilled of their kind.”
“You almost sound like you’re praising them.”
Jorgeson shrugged. “It’s a mistake to underestimate an enemy. I’m merely stating a fact, m’lord.”
Machison grunted, and gestured for Jorgeson to continue.
“We have names, thanks to our spies and what the witch-traitors from Below have told us. Corran Valmonde, the undertaker. Most likely also his brother, Rigan. Mir, the blacksmith’s son. Calfon, the son of the lamp merchant. Trent the butcher, Dilin from the shipwrights, Tomor the cobbler, Ross the farrier and two others, Ellis and Illir, from the Coopers’ Guild. All tradesmen from Wrighton, all hunters. It would be imprudent to assume, just because the Guilds have officially disavowed the hunters, that there might not be a... reaction to retaliations against their own. The men were all well-regarded before they took to hunting. Their friends might have ideas that don’t line up with the Guild Masters’. For that matter, who knows how the Guild Masters really feel about them? And remember—the commoners consider the hunters to be heroes, not brigands.”
Aliyev’s warnings still rang in Machison’s ears. Can’t allow this to get out of hand. Daren’t allow it to affect the negotiations. Can’t have the Guilds missing shipments—or withholding their goods. Can’t have the rabble rioting in the streets, either. Damn. This is beginning to feel like a cage.
“Are there any hunters left Above?”
“Fewer each day. We’ll flush out any hold-outs, or drive them so deep that they won’t dare return.”
“Well done. We’ve got to keep the Guilds working against each other, competing for advantage. Keep the residents frightened of their shadows, keep the Balance. Make sure that when you capture any hunters, you leave evidence that they were betrayed by rival Guilds. That should give the Guilds something to argue about.”
“It should indeed, m’lord.”
“And what do your spies hear of Kadar?”
“Nothing new. There’s bad blood between Kadar and Gorog, going back a decade,” Jorgeson said. “I’ve heard several versions of why that is, but it all comes down to money and pride. With the current negotiations, their resentments have gotten worse. I suspect Kadar was warning you—or the Crown Prince—that if he doesn’t get more of the spoils in the new agreement, he will cause problems.”
It may be nothing personal, but it could still get me killed, or beggar Ravenwood if their sniping manages to foul the agreement with Garenoth. I have no problem about rising with Gorog’s fortunes, but I’ll be damned if I fall with him. We’ve got to be careful.
“And the Wanderers?”
“Gone, for now. That’s the best we can hope for.”
He remembered the old woman from his nightmares, and suppressed a shiver. “Let’s keep it that way.” He thought for a moment. “What about their sigils? Did the prisoners reveal what they were meant to do?”
Jorgeson shook his head. “No, m’lord. Blackholt was inventive with his methods, murdered the man’s wife and children slowly and painfully in front of him, before turning his knives and magic on the man himself, but he gave us nothing.”
“So we have no idea whether or not the sigils are still active?”
“Not for certain, no.”
“Do better,” Machison snapped. “We’ve on dangerous ground between Gorog and Kadar. We can’t afford to slip up.” He didn’t need to say we won’t survive any more mistakes.
MACHISON’S STOMACH CHURNED as he descended to Blackholt’s dungeon. He swallowed hard, breathing through his mouth to avoid the worst of the stench.
“Back so soon?”
Machison could not mistake the mockery in Blackholt’s tone. Maybe the very act of employing his services taints the soul. Perhaps it’s like the Dark Ones, whose promises are lies and whose gifts are always traps. “What of the witches Below?”
“An interesting outcome. The safe house was destroyed, and the witches are dead.”
“All of them?”
“All of those I wanted dead. Two were my men carrying out my orders, and the other two might be of use, once we break them.”
“Have you captured them?”
“We’re tracking them. They’re the two I already told you about—a gifted healer and an undertaker with uncommon magic for his trade. They would be useful to Aliyev… or others.”
“Undertaker? One of the Valmonde brothers?” Machison remembered Jorgeson’s report a few candlemarks earlier. “Our spies believe the Valmondes are hunters.”
“The witch’s brother is a hunter. But he was not—until circumstances forced his hand. Now that he knows the guards are looking for him, that may change.”
“How difficult can it be to find and capture two ‘middling’ witches?” Machison demanded. His head throbbed.
“Not difficult at all, if they were middling witches,” Blackholt replied. “As it turns out both are more than we initially thought them to be.”
“A danger to us?”
“A minor obstacle,” Blackholt said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The healer’s power is not offensive. Neither, for the most part, is the undertaker’s. And yet, that’s where the surprise lies. According to my man, the undertaker has used his magic to kill on several occasions. Interesting.”
“Interesting? If he’s a danger, put an end to him.”
Blackholt smiled. “He could be a valuable asset. Magic of that strength is rare. It’s a shame to waste it. We will capture him and make a prize of him for the Crown Prince, take his brother as a surety, make use of his magic.”
“An unwilling witch? Sounds more likely to kill us than to be of any use.”
“One could say the same thing about an unwilling woman, yet you’ve taken enough of those to your bed, haven’t you?”
Machison glared at him. “If the Crown Prince wants new pets, let him take the risk himself. Too much is at stake right now. Get these missing witches out of our way before they can cause problems. I want the witches captured and the hunters dead.” If these witches actually do have potential, I’ll keep them myself, as a surety against Blackholt and Gorog.
Blackholt had the ill grace to look amused. “As you wish, m’lord. But you ought not be in such a hurry to hear the voices of the dead.”
Machison froze, recalling the words of the oracle at the temple, words he had shared with no one, words that echoed in his nightmare. “What did you say?”
“The Valmondes are undertakers. They have grave magic. Not true necromancy, but something that enables them to banish the restless dead. I have it on good authority the younger Valmonde’s magic goes beyond the usual. He can summon spirits as well as banish them, burn a man to death with fire, and hear the confessions of the dead.”
The last words sent a chi
ll through Machison no fire could warm. “Confess the dead?”
Blackholt’s smile was triumphant, catching the Lord Mayor by surprise. “It’s a rare skill, being able to hear the secrets the dead confide. Dirty secrets, old sins, broken confidences, the kinds of things that should never come to light. The things men take to their grave.”
Machison did not need much imagination to see the danger in such power, especially if it were to be seized by the Merchant Princes, used against their enemies. “It’s too dangerous,” he said. “He can’t be permitted to remain free.”
“He’s proving to be a hard man to capture.”
“We can’t let Kadar—or anyone else—get their hands on him,”
“I’ll see to it, immediately.”
Valmonde would be the greatest threat to Blackholt, not to me or to the Guild Masters or the Merchant Princes. He’d be the best weapon against the blood witch. The oracle was right. The tide is turning, and I need to rein in Blackholt, regain control of the situation. Perhaps Valmonde is just the tool needed to make that possible.
Chapter Thirty-Five
DILIN NEVER SAW the arrow that killed him.
“Down!” Mir yelled, too late.
The crossbow quarrel tore through Dilin’s chest with enough force to knock him back against the stone wall of an old house. Dilin stared uncomprehendingly, eyes wide with pain and shock. Then he slid down the wall, leaving a bloody trail.
Another quarrel ripped through Corran’s shirt, skimming his shoulder, and he belly-crawled beneath a wagon. Mir cursed as a third bolt hit the wall an inch behind where he had just been.
Panting, Corran looked at Mir. “You hit?”
“No, but it was bloody close.”
“Dilin—”
“Can’t go back for him now. He’s gone.” Mir shifted to get a better view of the location of the sniper—the upper level of a building across the street.
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