And then she left, running into the smoke and dust of the ruined cellar, with Gethrey’s colossus still smashing everything in sight.
Lady love? The ring burned, but he scarcely felt it. By the time he got the wind back in him, Maude was long gone into the smoke and fire and cacophonous racket of Gethrey’s colossus.
Tyvian climbed through the trapdoor and into the alley, still a bit numb.
Artus had Marcom leaned up against an empty crate. “Took you long enough.”
“What the hell are you whining abou—”
At that moment a host of tattlers swarmed around Tyvian’s body, illuminating the whole alleyway. At either end, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with their shields and firepikes at the ready, were the Defenders of the Balance. An amplified voice echoed through the night air. “Tyvian Reldamar! You are under arrest for crimes against the state! Kneel on the ground with your hands behind your head or face the consequences!”
Artus put his hands behind his head and knelt. “How can our situation keep getting worse?”
“Story of my life.” Tyvian sighed, and also knelt. The motion hurt like hell.
CHAPTER 27
STEPPING INTO HIS PARLOR
Myreon considered killing the Quiet Men right here, right now. Her fury still coursed through her veins, powerful enough to light volcanoes with the Fey she could channel. She raised her hands and prepared to burn the sorcerous monstrosities to ash . . . and stopped.
Was this how it started? Was this how Tyvian Reldamar had gone from the defender of the weak to the ruthless criminal she knew best? Was this what the ring kept him from becoming—a slave to his own darker urges, chained there by a series of bad choices and worse luck? No. She was a lot of things—perhaps even a criminal—but a butcher she wasn’t.
One of the Quiet Men crawled toward her, clutching at the hem of her borrowed dress. She kicked him away and, stepping over the prone, agonized forms of the others as their fellows still burned, she feyleapt to the roof of the club and pulled out Tyvian’s spare set of lock picks. There was the briefest of moments when she wondered whether he was all right, or whether he would escape from the Prophets and the tightening cordon of Defenders. It was a strange, alien feeling to her—when did she start caring? If he was made of stone, would she come back and save him, just as he had done for her?
Tyvian Reldamar came back to rescue you! The thought thundered in her mind, nearly blinding in its strangeness. She had to stop and take a deep breath—there were much more important things to focus on here.
The latch on the window slipped easily—so easily it made Myreon nervous. Another trap? Taking a deep breath, and wishing her staff weren’t smoldering beneath a bonfire in the street, she stepped onto the floor of the Secret Exchange.
The gleaming white walls of the great dome glowed with a luster that blinded her midnight-adjusted eyes. She hugged the wall for a moment, letting herself acclimate. The air was cool and dry, with no discernible odor. There was no sound whatsoever—it was so quiet, she could hear her heart booming and her joints creak as she moved. To Myreon, who had never been to the Secret Exchange, it seemed like she had entered a temple.
While the exchange was open—sunrise to sunset—she would have expected to see dozens of magi there. There would be masters in the Blue, Black, and White Colleges of the Arcanostrum; some of those who were retired would be currently serving as judges. Representatives of every wealthy sorcerous family in Saldor and proxy traders from foreign governments, all magi of one of the four colleges. For all the magestaffs to be seen, though, not a one would belong to a Defender—Mage Defenders, the joke went, might be the only magi paid a salary, but they were also the only poor sorcerers in the West. If you were from a wealthy sorcerous family, you didn’t go into the Gray Tower—you went into one of the four colleges, treating sorcery as an academic pursuit, and made all your money by investing daddy’s coin in the markets. Make your own hours, nobody to give you orders, and retire rich and comfortable. It was, essentially, the exact opposite of a Defender’s lot.
For now, however, the exchange was closed, the vast checkered floor empty, making the whole place look like one massive couronne board, stretching off in all directions. Xahlven Reldamar was alone, his black robes pooling around his feet like bleeding shadows, his hands lightly clasped about his silver magestaff—he was patiently waiting to receive her. He was tall and handsome in a kind of breathtaking way that Myreon realized would make it difficult to look him in the eye while speaking to him. It struck her that she was about to confront one of the most powerful sorcerers in the entire world—the Archmage of the Ether, the Chairman of the Black College, the youngest person in recorded history to achieve the rank of Master. Myreon’s mouth went a little dry.
But she hadn’t made Mage Defender by being meek either. She squared her shoulders, fixed her eyes on Xahlven’s dimpled chin, and marched straight across the floor. The heels of her boots echoed through the whole exchange, seeming to carry on forever. She must have been a sight to behold—hair wild, soot on her face, skirt tattered, the scent of fire and blood wafting from her skin. “Xahlven Reldamar! I must speak with you!”
Myreon and Xahlven met each other by the edge of the great scrying pool at the center of the Secret Exchange. He looked at her with open concern. “Myreon Alafarr? You ought to be in a garden, shouldn’t you?”
“I was framed,” she spat back. “As if you didn’t know.”
Xahlven’s golden eyebrows shot up. “Framed? Why?”
Myreon scowled at him. The nerve of this jackass, denying it to her face! “Don’t play stupid, Reldamar. We’ve got it all figured out—we know what you’re trying to do.”
“We? Are you, perchance, referring to my brother the wanted criminal?” Xahlven shook his head. “What has he got you believing, Myreon? Let me guess: that I’m the center of some elaborate, nefarious plot of some kind. That you have to stop me to save the world.” He smiled. “Am I close?”
“This isn’t about Tyvian—this is about you.” Myreon pointed at him. She found herself wanting to punch him in his perfect nose.
Xahlven smiled. “Oh, no doubt. I’m certain my brother was very convincing—that is his talent, you know. Tell me, when he was explaining my evil plot to you, did he provide any evidence?”
Myreon stepped closer to him. “My being petrified for a crime I didn’t commit is evidence enough! I know all about Gethrey Andolon, all about his plot, and therefore I know all about you! Only you have the connections to pull something like this off.”
Xahlven raised one finger. “Correction—only a Reldamar has the connections to pull something like this off. Namely myself, my mother, or Tyvian.” Xahlven gave Myreon a little shrug and shook his head, as though genuinely sorry he had to bring this up. “Now, of those three, who is the most likely to engage in a plot with Gethrey Andolon?”
Myreon faltered. She felt suddenly sick—what if . . . ? “You expect me to believe that . . . that . . .”
“Does my brother sound like the kind of person who would turn down Andolon’s offer?” Xahlven smiled, but his eyes—Tyvian’s shade of searing blue—were full of sympathy. “I’m the Archmage of the Ether, Myreon. Give me a little credit, hmmm?”
“No.” Myreon set her jaw and pressed on. This was smoke and mirrors. This was simple misinformation—how many times had Tyvian outsmarted her operations with things like this? “Tyvian couldn’t have had me framed. Tyvian wouldn’t have broken me out of petrification if he was working with Andolon—it doesn’t make sense. Your mother has no motive. You, meanwhile . . .”
Xahlven nodded, considering this. “Ah. And what is my motive, supposedly?”
Myreon snorted. “If you crash the exchange and use Andolon to bail them out and then kill him, you can gain control of the Secret Exchange for yourself.”
Xahlv
en chuckled and turned his back on her. He began to pace around the scrying pool, glancing into it from time to time. “Really? And I suppose Tyvian sent you here to talk me out of it? To, what, threaten me into not doing this?”
Myreon followed behind him. “Actually, he specifically told me to not confront you.”
Xahlven shot her a look over his shoulder. His eyes were twinkling, “A rather significant specification, don’t you think? Get you to assume I’m guilty and then make certain you don’t talk to me. Convenient.”
“I keep waiting for you to deny any of these charges.” Myreon stopped and readied her defenses in case Xahlven attacked. “Call your little operation off or I’ll expose you.”
Xahlven held up one finger. “Let us refrain from casting about threats for the nonce and return to the original assertion of my guilt, please: you, through my brother, insist that I am doing all this to gain control of the Secret Exchange, is that not correct?”
Myreon’s stomach tightened—she didn’t like this. She didn’t like the way this conversation was going. It felt like a conversation with Tyvian—old Tyvian, original pre-ring Tyvian—only more polished, more prepared. For all Tyvian’s brilliance at scheming, much of what he did relied on a certain degree of inspired improvisation. With Xahlven, Myreon felt as though he had rehearsed this same exact conversation several times before. She and he were playing out a little skit, written by him, meant to elicit the outcome he sought. She tried to think of a way to break it, a way to escape his expectations, but what? Tackle him?
When she didn’t respond to his set question, Xahlven answered it for her. “Such is your supposition. Now, as I am Chairman of the Secret Exchange, how exactly would controlling the Secret Exchange in any way expand the powers I already possess?”
Myreon clenched her hands into fists. “I . . . I don’t know.”
Xahlven nodded, smiling. “Indeed. I already essentially control the Secret Exchange—I or my agents approve all transactions. So, if I am currently in possession of the two things I stand to gain by crashing the exchange—those being material wealth and financial influence—why in the name of all the gods would I bother risking my position, reputation, and future by conspiring to defraud the markets?”
Myreon felt frozen. Oh no, she certainly didn’t like this—something about Xahlven, something about his easy confidence, his knowing smiles, made her feel as though she were a child. He was talking down to her, like some aspiring apprentice. “If you know about Andolon, then, why haven’t you stopped him yet?”
“There is something very useful about having a person expose the weaknesses of a system you manage, especially if you can curtail them from doing real damage at any time. Andolon is troubleshooting the markets for me, my dear, and when he gets to the point where he must be stopped, he will be. I have a troop of Defenders standing by for exactly that purpose.”
Myreon didn’t want to, but she had to admit that Xahlven, for all his sanctimonious airs, was making a lot of sense. “Explain the Quiet Men trying to stop me from seeing you, then!”
“The answer is right in front of you, Ms. Alafarr, though you are oddly unwilling to see it. Who has the contacts of a Reldamar yet lacks money or financial influence? Who is old friends with Gethrey Andolon? Who was offered a lucrative job by his old friend—the man who framed you? Who has existing contacts in the underworlds of five major Western cities?”
Myreon’s mouth was dry. “Tyvian.”
Xahlven nodded, his voice grave. “Tyvian.”
“Gods . . .” she breathed. “You’re right. Oh . . . oh gods!”
“It is my brother who plans to double-cross Andolon and snap up all his riches. It is my brother who hopes to secure a substantial portion of the West’s wealth. His ring has made him unable to exist in his former shady world of smuggling, theft, and piracy, and so he’s decided to foray into the more morally ambiguous world of finance. You, my dear, are designed as a distraction.”
Myreon looked at Xahlven and felt her world spinning around her. Of course. OF COURSE! Tyvian had played her—rescued her, been kind to her, shown his so-called “good” side—and all so he could send her here to hassle his brother even as he was probably off somewhere making the real plot happen. It had been a lie! It had all been a lie! “That bastard!”
There was a heavy footfall behind her from an individual that weighed far more than any human being. Glancing over her shoulder, Myreon saw a white marble golem, silver inlaid in arabesque patterns on its chest and arms, looming over her. “Now,” Xahlven was saying, “while this chat has been very illuminating for me and no doubt for you as well, your crimes have unfortunately rendered you forbidden from the floor. The golem will see you out the way you came in. You understand, of course, that I will be informing the authorities of your trespass here.”
Myreon turned back around. “No, wait—”
The golem, though, wasn’t about to wait. It grabbed her around the waist with two animated stone hands and threw her over its shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Myreon struggled to escape, but she might as well have been trying to kick over a mountain. The golem thrust her out the open window, depositing her roughly on the roof.
She sat there, head in her hands, as her mind spun from both the roughness of her ejection and the shock of what Xahlven had suggested. How could she have been so stupid? So naive? It had been Tyvian the whole time! Myreon sat on the roof, head in her hands, trying to think about what she should do next. How could she stop him?
That, as it turned out, didn’t require as much thought. Myreon was on her feet, anger once again firing the Fey energy in her. She leapt into the wind, vengeance burning behind her eyes. Tyvian Reldamar had a reckoning coming, and this time there was nothing that bastard could say to save himself.
CHAPTER 28
CROSSTOWN RUMBLE
The Defenders lost no time in putting Tyvian and Artus on their faces and kneeling on their backs. Two others were gently transporting the death-pale Marcom back somewhere—to a healer or doctor, perhaps. Maybe a priest. At the moment, Tyvian had neither the time nor inclination to worry overmuch.
“Can I say something?” he managed through the half of his mouth that wasn’t kissing Crosstown cobblestones.
A man in a mirrored mageglass helm shouted in his ear, “Shut yer hole!”
Manacles clamped around his wrists and he was hauled upright. “You’re really going to want to hear this.”
The Defender grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head back so the light of the tattlers clearly illuminated his face. “Here he is, magus. He won’t shut up neither.”
Tyvian found himself looking at a rather tired but still smug Argus Androlli. “Not blowing anybody kisses now, are we, Mr. Reldamar?”
Artus was hauled up next to Tyvian. “We got this one, too.” The Defenders sounded excited—nearly giddy. Tyvian understood. It was like a fishing trip, and they’d just hauled in the One That Got Away.
Tyvian eyed the smoke billowing from the windows of the Cauldron behind them and felt the rumbles in the cobblestones and decided to cut through all the wordplay. “Magus, we need to get out of here right now.”
Androlli looked at the Cauldron over his shoulder. “Do you burn down every building you go into?”
“He’s not kidding, magus!” Artus nodded. “We gotta run for it! Trust us!”
Androlli snorted. “Don’t worry, we’re leaving, but not before I ask you—”
The Mage Defender didn’t get to finish his sentence. Behind him the Cauldron—which had been producing a stream of soot-covered, terrified patrons and employees out of every possible door and window for a few minutes now—shuddered as though it were an egg about to hatch. Androlli trailed off, looking back toward the building. “What in all the hells is this?”
The wall of the Cauldron closest to them collapsed forward
in an avalanche of stone, lumber, and plaster. The Defenders closest to the wall were crushed beneath the rubble; Androlli would have been, too, but for a last minute guard he managed to erect, which spared him and those behind him—namely Artus, Tyvian, and their two arresting Defenders.
Before the dust had cleared, Gethrey Andolon, still ensconced in his colossus, emerged from the gutted interior of the whorehouse. His mageglass hide was covered in a thin sheet of plaster, coating his shoulders and torso like snow. Gethrey shook it off with a quick twist and then looked down at Tyvian. His voice boomed through the alley. “Surprise, surprise!”
Androlli craned his neck upward, mouth agape. “Hann’s boots!”
Tyvian felt his bowels contract in fear. Nevertheless, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity: “I told you so.”
Tyvian’s adrenaline banished his weak-kneed terror faster than it did for anybody else. The first thing he did was kick Androlli in the direction of Gethrey, who tried to step on the Mage Defender and splat him into so much smug Rhondian goo. Androlli threw up another guard—this one powerful enough to force Gethrey to stumble backward into the Cauldron.
The Defenders on either side of Artus and Tyvian leveled their firepikes and began blasting at the colossus, but the eldritch war machine had been specifically designed to handle such punishment well—the fiery bolts pattered off his torso plates like so many incendiary raindrops.
Tyvian was about to pick their pockets for the keys to his manacles when he had those keys thrust into his hands by Artus, who was a half second ahead of him. “What do we do?”
“Run for our lives!” Tyvian grabbed him by the shirt and tugged him into a limping sprint down the alley. Behind them, the rumble of collapsing architecture indicated that Gethrey was close behind.
They shot out of the alley and into the street, only to find themselves staring down a firing line of twenty Defenders, their firepikes blazing. “Oh Kroth!” Tyvian dropped to the ground, pulling Artus with him, just as the Defenders opened up in a blaze of Fey energy that lit the night. The blasts were aimed at the colossus, but the basic inaccuracy of the firepike meant bolts of fire scattered over a wide area, hitting the Cauldron, the building next to it, scorching cobblestones, and also bouncing off the colossus’s armored hide.
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