All That Glitters

by Auston Habershaw

  Artus managed a half-­graceful bow. “Milord.”

  “Yeah” Brana added, wiggling his hips.

  Andolon waved an emerald-­studded hand at them. “Pish-­posh! Call me Gethrey, yes? Any friends of Reldamar are friends of mine!” He motioned to a trio of thick Kalsaari-­style cushions that had been set out by a few servants. “Won’t you sit down?”

  Artus sat. Brana turned in place three times and then sat on the floor. “Gethrey” gave him a deadpan look for a moment, and then focused on Artus. This close, Andolon looked unusually young—­maybe in his mid-­twenties, if that—­but Artus knew that couldn’t be right. He realized, suddenly, that he was being looked in the eye. Like a man. Like an equal. He squared his shoulders and focused on keeping his voice from cracking. “So, what do you want from me, milord?”

  “Gethrey, please.” Andolon clapped his hands and three women entered the room bearing bowls full of fruit. Artus caught a glimpse of enough female leg to make his brain reorder all his current priorities into watching the three beauties saunter across the unusually large floor. They were wearing gowns with slits up the side practically to their hips and necklines practically to their navels, and had pinned to their faces broad smiles full of white, perfectly rounded teeth. One of these incredible creatures—­a woman with dark curly hair and eyes of onyx—­knelt beside Artus, the bowl of fruit under her arm. She smiled and nodded a greeting.

  It was at this point Artus realized that Andolon had been talking to him this entire time. “ . . . and so you see that I am not, unfortunately, a lord of any kind.”

  “I’m sorry—­what?” Artus forced himself to snap his attention back to Andolon, who himself had another dark-­haired beauty kneeling beside him. Trying not to look at her and instead meet the gaze of a skinny man with blue hair and diamond earrings was enough to almost cause him physical pain.

  Andolon shrugged. “My family ran out of money, Artus—­that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Unlike in other realms, the nobility of Saldor essentially buy their titles. I had to build up all this,” he motioned to their environs, “on my own.”

  Artus frowned, eyeing the sheer ostentation of the room.

  Andolon laughed. “Hard to believe, I know. Want to know my secret?”

  Artus shrugged, trying to feign indifference. “Sure, I guess.”

  The Saldorian held up three fingers and ticked them off, one by one. “Motivated. Self. Interest. I learned a long time ago that if you look out for yourself first—­if you follow your own heart, if you seek your own goals—­nothing can stop you.”

  Artus snorted. “Money helps.”

  “Money is motivated self-­interest, Artus. It’s the same thing. You know who has money? The ­people who want it the most.” Andolon shrugged. “That may sound cruel, but . . . well, life is pretty cruel, wouldn’t you say? But, of course, you know all this, don’t you? Tyvian is a pioneer of such thinking, isn’t he?”

  Artus grunted. “You can say that again.”

  Their conversation was disturbed by a muted squeak and the clatter of a metal bowl on the deck. Artus turned to see Brana with his head inside the bowl of fruit, wolfing it all down in giant bites. His female servant stood over him, frozen in place and so pale she looked ready to faint, but her smile still affixed where it had been when she entered. Artus, catching Andolon’s skeptical eye, said, “He’s the muscle, I’m the brains.”

  Andolon chuckled at that. “Would you care for a grape?”

  Artus blinked and looked over at the bowl of fruit (and only the bowl of fruit, he warned himself). “Umm . . . sure. I guess.”

  The serving girl picked a grape and dangled it before his mouth. In a thick Illini accent, she purred, “For you, my knight.”

  Artus looked at her, just to confirm that this was actually happening. She kept smiling and nodding, those dark eyes fixed on his face. Cautiously, he opened his mouth. The girl placed the grape inside and Artus chewed. They were ripe and just the right mixture of sweet and tart. It was, arguably, the best grape he had ever had.

  Andolon was watching him, smiling the whole time. “They’re from Rhond.”

  “Uhh . . . the girls?”

  “The grapes, Artus.” Andolon opened his own mouth to have a grape placed inside. “Seedless—­did you notice that? A country abjurer will go around to various vineyards, warding off the development of seeds from the vines the viticulturist designates to produce table-­grapes.”

  Artus didn’t take his eyes off the Illini girl. She offered him another grape. He ate it. He found himself unable to relax on his cushion, but also wholly unwilling to move. “Uh-­huh.”

  “Had enough grapes?” Andolon asked.

  Artus nodded. The women withdrew, and suddenly Artus felt like he could breathe again. He turned back to Andolon to see that he was being offered a flute of champagne from a servant in a silver wig whom he did not hear enter. He took it. Brana got one, too.

  “Thanks!” Artus said. He sipped his champagne—­it was fruity and bubbly and tickled his tongue. He liked it. He liked drinking it. Hell, he liked being offered it. He was enjoying this—­it was a feeling of . . . of control, of self-­importance. Was this what Tyvian felt like all the time?

  “Sorry about following you and everything,” Artus heard himself saying before stopping himself. Wait—­was that a good idea?

  Andolon shook his head. “Not at all, not at all—­I was counting on it. The fellow you met up on deck—­DiVarro—­he’s a Verisi augur. Do you know what that is?”

  Artus shook his head. “No.”

  “It is a mage, actually—­a staff-­bearing mage who attended the Arcanostrum and earned his staff with the endorsement of the Baron of Veris with the understanding that said newly minted mage would return to Veris and serve the baron. They are among the most talented augurs in the West. You have no idea the lengths I had to go to in order to secure his employment—­scandalous amounts of money were spent, let me assure you.”

  Artus looked over at Brana. The gnoll-­boy was lapping his champagne out of the flute at a steady, flapping rhythm. “Brana . . .” he hissed, “cut it out!”

  “Anyway,” Andolon went on, without stopping, gesturing with his own champagne flute in broad arcs, “the point is that I knew you were coming—­because of DiVarro, I know everything before it happens. Pretty special, eh? So, I set up this little reception. I wanted a chance to speak with you alone.”

  “Just what, exactly, are we supposed to be talking about, then?” Artus leaned back and tried to relax, but he still felt on edge. Something about this, nice as it was, seemed . . . off.

  Nah, he told himself, that’s just Tyvian talking—­he’s made you bloody paranoid.

  “To be honest, Artus,” Andolon sighed heavily, “I’m worried for Tyvian. I’m worried that he’s back in town—­he’s taking an awful risk being here, you know.”

  Artus laughed. “I know—­I’ve been telling him that for weeks!”

  Andolon grinned and leaned forward on his cushion so that his hands were on his knees. “As well you should! You and I, Artus, we’re some of Tyvian’s only friends, right? We’ve got to do what’s best for him, don’t we?”

  Artus arched an eyebrow. “I guess so.” He checked on Brana—­he was curled up in his cushion, fast asleep. “What do you mean?”

  Andolon shrugged. “Look, Artus—­Tyvian won’t listen to me, and I bet he won’t listen to you either.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “You know what he will listen to, though?” Andolon grinned.

  Artus shrugged. “No, what?”

  Andolon held up three fingers. “Motivated. Self. Interest.”

  Artus frowned. “What, you’re gonna . . . bribe him?”

  “Not me, Artus—­we. We are going to bribe your friend into listening to sense, and then all of us are going to wind up f
ilthy, stinking rich. We’ll be drinking champagne and eating grapes from the hands of pretty girls for the rest of our days—­hell, we’ll go on a cruise, see the world. How does that sound?”

  Artus cocked his head. “Oh yeah? And what do I gotta do? Run errands? Carry stuff? Pretend to be your manservant or something?”

  Andolon laughed. “Artus, that’s the beauty of it—­all you need to do, my boy, is sit back, relax right there with your little friend, and just wait for Tyvian to come to you.”

  Artus knew something about this seemed wrong, but he was damned if he could figure out what it was. He shot Andolon a big grin. “So . . . does that mean I can get some more grapes?”

  “I still think we should find them. They could be hurt.” Hool growled, clutching a paper fan as though it were a creature that needed throttling. Her nostrils flared at the perfumed interior of the fine Saldorian tailor shop. Had she not been wearing her shroud, Tyvian supposed her ears would be plastered back across her head.

  “I told you, Hool—­they need their space,” Tyvian said while examining himself in the mirror—­a new doublet, breeches, fine silk shirt, a powdered wig, cane, shoes. He was a vision in gold and burgundy. “No cape? Are you certain?”

  The tailor nodded slightly, smoothing one side of his handlebar moustache. “Yes, sir. Capes are out of fashion for the summer. Were it autumn, well . . .”

  Tyvian nodded. “Very well, very well. I will eschew the cape, though the doublet is tight about the shoulders.”

  “I don’t like it,” Hool went on. “Brana is too little. Artus is too stupid.”

  “I could let it out. It would only take perhaps an hour . . .” The tailor pursed his lips and whipped his measuring tape from his neck.

  Tyvian relaxed his shoulders to let the tailor do his work. “Hool, I know more or less exactly where they are and I strongly suspect I will be seeing them later on today. You smother them too much.”

  Hool scowled. “Where are they? Do not lie!”

  Tyvian smiled at her. “They’re on a boat in the middle of the harbor somewhere.”

  Hool’s eyes practically leapt from her skull. “My Brana would never go on a boat!”

  The tailor placed his index finger on Tyvian’s shoulder blade with steady, insistent pressure but paused before making a mark with a piece of chalk. “You wish it tailored for dueling, yes?”

  Tyvian looked over his shoulder and caught the man’s eye. There was no judgment there, no ridicule—­he was a man tailoring a customer, nothing more. That he knew who his customer was didn’t matter. Tyvian grinned. “No time today, I’m afraid. On all the others, though, tailoring for dueling is a must. Oh, yes, and one doublet—­the black one with the long sleeves—­treat that to be fire resistant.”

  Hool managed to collect herself, though her fan would never be the same. “Why are they on a boat?”

  The tailor nodded as he made some notes on a pad of paper. “Might I suggest fireproofing, sir? No flame will catch—­assuming your account can bear the extra expense.”

  “No, no—­resistant. I want it to burn, just not me.” Tyvian gave him a wink. The tailor did not react.

  “Answer me!” Hool snapped.

  “Because on the water is the only place criminals can safely practice their trade in Saldor.” Tyvian sighed as he swung his arms in his doublet from side to side—­yes, totally unsuitable for dueling. If a fight was going to happen today, he hoped his opponent had the good form to let him take it off first.

  The tailor completed his note-­taking, apparently hearing none of their conversation. “How do you intend to pay, sir?”

  Tyvian produced his family signet ring and waved it in front of the tailor’s nose. “I’ll wear the clothes out, thank you. Send the rest to Glamourvine.”

  The tailor stared at the ring for a moment as though mesmerized. Had there been any doubt about Tyvian’s identity before, it was now dispelled. The man recovered himself and favored Tyvian with a stiff bow. “The Reldamars are always welcome in my shop, sir.”

  Tyvian grinned. “Then you and I, sir, are likely to become fast friends.” He belted on Chance in a brand-­new belt and scabbard that was a very fetching gold-­studded number of Eddonish make. While he didn’t technically need a scabbard for his mageglass sword—­he could always “banish” the blade back into the hilt until he needed it and summon it again with a word—­a fine sword on the hip sent certain messages to onlookers that he wanted delivered, today in particular. Satisfied with his ensemble, he trotted out to the street.

  Here, behind the ancient ivy-­clad walls of the Old City, the cobbles were more even and the willow trees that lined the carriage lanes provided much needed shade from the sun. The stench of the press of humanity in Crosstown had given way to clean, cool breezes and the sound of birds twittering from the flower-­draped windowsills of stately town houses. Here also, though, were columns of Defenders, marching through the streets on maneuvers. All it would take would be one cry from one person who recognized him, and Tyvian was as good as captured and petrified. He took a deep breath—­the high stakes games were the ones he was always best at. That didn’t make them any safer, though.

  Beside him, Hool grimly put on a just-­purchased broad-­brimmed hat of green with a white ribbon to match her dress. It was clear she was thinking about throwing it under the nearest coach. “Why do we need new clothes?”

  Tyvian pointed across the street to the stately facade of a building a full story taller than its neighbors. It had a colonnade front of gray stone and broad steps of the same material leading up to a heavy door worked with elaborate wrought-­iron devices of arcane and ancient description. “Because we are going in there to see my brother and, very possibly, start a fight. Are you ready?”

  “Is your brother like you?”

  “No. He’s an archmage and a paragon of the community.”

  Hool frowned. “That’s too bad. I would like to punch somebody who is like you right now.”

  Tyvian smiled and offered her his arm. She didn’t take it, and instead stomped along behind him, glowering at his back.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE FAMULI CLUB

  Technically, Saldor was a swamp. All around it, for miles in every direction, marshy ground and muddy waters clung to the roots of ancient trees, producing little other than frogs, mosquitoes, and disease. It was, by all conventional measures, a terrible place to build a city.

  It was, however, an excellent place to place a magical citadel, sitting as it was at the conjunction of three massive ley lines. Sorcerers had made the place their home for millennia—­long before even the Arcanostrum had been constructed—­and powerful sorcerers had a way of drawing ­people to themselves, even unintentionally. Over the ages, the magi of the Arcanostrum transmuted the swampland into solid ground, piece by piece. The city grew in stages, starting with everything inside the perfectly circular walls of the Old City, and then with all the other appendages that had been pasted on in the centuries since.

  In the modern era, however, the Arcanostrum was no longer the driving force behind this ever-­increasing rate of growth. That distinction lay at the feet of the Saldorian Exchange. Money, not magic, was what made Saldor—­and by extension the West—­turn.

  The exchange was a massive, many-­columned building a full third of a mile long—­a soaring edifice of marble and mageglass, gilded with all the gold filigree and fluttering angel sculptures avarice could afford. It lay in the exact heart of the Foreign District, which lay at the southern edge of the Old City, just within the city’s ancient walls and a hop, skip, and jump from the docks that saw so much of the world’s material wealth dragged across it.

  Each and every morning ships sailing from Ihyn, Illin, Eretheria, Akral, Rhond, and even Eddon pulled into Saldor’s harbor and unloaded goods along the piers. Gold, spices, steel, furs, timber, livestock, jewels, karfan, w
ines—­if it had a value, it would be drawn toward the exchange and the Grand Bazaar with all the inexorable strength of gravity itself. Even Freegate, sluicegate as it was to the vast territories of the North, saw its gold drain south toward Saldor, not north toward itself. If Freegate was an artery of commerce, Saldor was the heart through which the lifeblood flowed.

  At this time of day—­mid-­morning, judging by the sun—­Tyvian knew the floor of the exchange would be bustling with the frenetic activity of every merchant or shipping agent with two silvers to rub together and a grand, get-­rich-­quick scheme. The exchange made mulch of such persons on a daily basis, and from the steaming wreckage of their burgeoning shipping empires and wild-­eyed efforts to corner the market, a whole new batch of gold-­mad traders was fertilized and grew to maturity in order to be cut down in their turn.

  Tyvian had no intention of going there. The floor of the exchange was for fools. Instead, he and Hool were aimed at the place where the truly powerful of Saldor made and maintained their stupendous wealth—­the Famuli Club.

  The Venerable Society of Famuli had existed for a little over four centuries, dating back to the time when magi were more like cloistered monks and the wealthy merchant families of Saldor wanted a way to curry influence with them. It had begun as a charitable organization—­raising money for Arcanostrum magi for their housing, their clothing, their food, and their research. Over the centuries, it morphed into a kind of social club for magi and their families. The original building had been burned down immediately after the Queens’ Wars almost four hundred years ago. The only part that remained was the door.

  Tyvian stopped before it and thrust his elbow out at Hool. “Take it.”

  Hool glared at his arm. “Why?”

  “We are about to enter a nest of predators, Hool. They are going to look fat and old or young and stupid, but these ­people are among the most powerful ­people in the world, do you understand?”

  Hool slipped her shrouded hand lightly between Tyvian’s arm and his body. “What’s the arm have to do with it?”