The Cipher

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  Marten entered under the wide arcade that tunneled through to the garden courtyard. Two Howlers stood stiffly erect on either side of the wrought iron gates. The walkway was lit by hundreds of sylveth lights that sparkled like fairy stars, their reflections gleaming in the white marble floor. A dark walnut wainscoting skirted the lower half of the walls. Inserted periodically along the walls were niches containing erotic statuary. Midway along there was a wide space containing a splashing fountain in the design of three Koreions devouring a ship. Bracketing it were two broad doors inlaid with green windstone. Boys in scarlet tailcoats, trousers, and gloves waited to greet arriving guests.

  He entered the bagnio through the right-hand door. A pair of young girls dressed identically to their counterparts outside greeted him. He waved away their solicitations and went through a concealed door into the serving passage, making his way down to the basement level, letting himself out in the lobby outside Edgar’s private quarters. There were no guards. The door, a simple, unprepossessing slab of satiny wood, was majicked against entry. Only Edgar could open it when it was locked. Which it was not now.

  Marten pushed inside, finding himself inside a spacious reception area, with tall ceilings and soft light. Despite the lack of windows from being underground, the room felt airy and free. A fire crackled in the hearth, with chairs and settees clustered in cozy groups. The room was decorated in shades of emerald, brown, and gold with tapestries depicting bloody battles from centuries ago before Crosspointe had been founded. Weaponry and armor from all over the world adorned the walls, and above the fireplace was a long shield, pointed on the bottom and quartered with emerald and gold panels. Embossed in the center was a fanciful device in stark black in the shape of a sharp-toothed wolf’s skull with a sword caught in its teeth. The shield was Edgar’s none-too-subtle proclamation of his ambition.

  Marten crossed the room, stopping before a desk at the other end. A clerk sat behind it. He hadn’t seen this one before. She was young, wearing a journeyman’s pin in her rounded collar. Typical for Edgar. She was quite beautiful, with clear skin, blue eyes, and honey-colored hair. She glanced up from her work, her painted lips luscious red.

  “May I help you?”

  “I am here to see my brother,” Marten said, smiling flirtatiously.

  “Oh! Yes, sir. Won’t you sit while I let him know you are here?”

  He nodded and watched her disappear through a green baize door hidden behind a curtained nook left of her desk. She was gone only a minute or two and then returned.

  “Mr. Thorpe would be pleased if you stepped in,” she announced, motioning him toward the heavy main door right of her desk. It had already swung open. Waiting inside was a footman.

  “The master is in the library, sir,” the footman said.

  Edgar was sitting in a cushioned chair, sipping tea while reading the newspaper. He set his cup aside on the end table. His eyes were bloodshot, as if he’d not slept. He was wearing a long black jacket with a fur collar over a white shirt unbuttoned to his waist. His chest hair was a thick pelt running down to his waist-band, the blond well threaded with gray. At Marten’s entrance, he looked up.

  “Good morning, Marten. I had not expected to see you so soon. Dare I hope that you’ve had success in your endeavor and you’re here to collect your winnings?” He spoke lightly, without any real expectation of it being true.

  Marten grinned, fishing the seals out of his pocket and holding them out in the flat of his hand. Much as he wanted to prevaricate, to draw out the suspense, even more he wanted to see Edgar’s reaction. He was gratified by his brother’s sudden shift from indolence to attention. Edgar moistened his lips, reaching out for the seals.

  “Let me see them.”

  Marten’s hand closed at an unexpected wash of un-ease. Edgar raised his brows.

  “Change your mind? Do you have a sudden yen to wear the iron collar?”

  “You aren’t planning to use these, are you?”

  Edgar sat forward. “What are you accusing me of, little brother?”

  Marten felt his color rising and bit the inside of his cheek. His brother was older than he by fifteen years. They shared a father, but Edgar’s mother had killed her-self when he was eleven years old and within a few months, their father had found a new bride, one with apple cheeks and dewy eyes. She died in a fall down the stairs when Marten was barely walking. Shortly after, their father had put the two boys in the charge of a cousin and took the helm of a ship. A few years later his ship disappeared and he’d never been heard from again.

  Edgar had stepped into the role of father to Marten, teaching him how to behave like a gentleman, how to live in the world, and much more. He’d been stern and demanding, his praise hard earned and all the more valued for it. Marten had admired him all his life. Now he withered before the question, feeling a schoolboy urge to scuff his feet and look away.

  “I’d hate to be responsible for her ruin, is all. It wouldn’t be honorable.”

  Edgar laughed gently. “Isn’t it late to be considering honor? You’ve totted up a substantial gambling debt, and you’ve stolen the imprint of Miss Trenton’s seal. Surely if honor was a concern, you’d never have taken this bet, or else defaulted on it to save her. But here you are, aren’t you?”

  Despite the mild tone, the words cut deeply, if only because they were true. Marten flushed.

  “Does that mean you do have plans for these?” he pushed. He might not have any honor to speak of, but he didn’t want to be responsible for Lucy getting hurt. He thought of her shredded hands. He didn’t doubt she’d be far more angry about the damage to her reputation if it should get out she’d allowed stamped seals to be stolen.

  “You’ve come to care for her, haven’t you?” Edgar shook his head. “I can’t say I’m not glad of it, if only because it means you might at last learn a very important lesson. It could be the making of you.”

  Marten’s hand clamped tighter around the disks, foreboding knotting his entrails. “What lesson?”

  “That gambling will destroy you, and if not you, then the people you care most about.”

  Marten’s mouth tasted of wormwood. “You are going to use them.” It wasn’t a question.

  “What I am going to do with them is none of your business. What you should be concerned about is whether you want to wear the iron collar or whether you want to give those seals to me and pay off the knee breakers.”

  Edgar held out his hand again, his voice both unrelenting and sympathetic. “Make your choice, Marten. And learn from it. You don’t ever want to sit down to a game table again, no matter the temptation. If you must be tempted, run the house as I do. It’s far less chancy.”

  There was no choice. He could not wear the collar. Slowly Marten dropped the disks onto his brother’s palm. It would be well. They were just five seals. What real harm could they do?

  Edgar stood, coming around to put his arm around Marten’s shoulder.

  “Come on. This is cause for celebration. You’ll have to tell me the entire story of your astonishing conquest over dinner. I’m buying. Though perhaps you should. You owe me one or two meals.”

  To Marten’s surprise, Edgar didn’t lead him back into the dining room in which he usually entertained, but opened a cleverly disguised door in a corner of the library. It led into a private office, where they paused while Edgar locked up the seals. Marten watched with a chill of trepidation. He suppressed it, thinking of Neckbitt and all that he owed.

  He followed Edgar into a plush sitting room. His brother rang for dinner and it was brought by two dark-skinned servingmen. Marten could only stare. They were Jutras. And Edgar called his gambling foolish. This…this was both treasonous and suicidal.

  The two men were small, topping up at Marten’s shoulder. Their black hair was short, only two inches long, and oiled. They wore loose white trousers and shirts and went barefoot. Their fingernails were long and cut in points and both had yellow eyes. Around their necks were iron collar
s. Welts, both fresh and scarred, layered their exposed skin, and Marten didn’t doubt the clothing hid more. His gorge rose involuntarily. What had the men done to deserve such treatment? But they were Jutras. They were capable of anything.

  They set the food out on the lace tablecloth in an almost stealthy way before retreating to kneel against the wall in silence. Marten didn’t move to sit, staring at the mute figures.

  “Braken’s cods, what are you doing with them, Edgar?”

  Edgar’s lips curved. “One of my ships netted them when theirs went down in a misguided attempt to venture into the Inland Sea without a Pilot. They make good houseboys…if you treat them just right.”

  The smug malice in his voice made Marten’s skin prickle. He knew Edgar was capable of brutal violence, of maiming women and servants and ordering men killed. It was the nature of his business, of his ambition. But his hatred of the Jutras was deeper and blacker than the Inland Sea. Marten’s eyes ran over the whip scars; he could almost feel sorry for the men. Except the Jutras did far worse to captives. Their bloody butchery was the stuff of nightmares.

  “If someone should find out…you’d be thrown in irons, everything you own stripped from you. They might even toss you out on the Bramble. What if these men are spies? The vanguard of an invasion?”

  Edgar sat down, picking up his silverware and polishing it on his napkin before serving himself. “They are entirely under my control. You may trust in that. I’ve made a study of these two—it’s wise to understand the enemy. The Inland Sea is our realm, but we must be vigilant. The Jutras are like rats in the grain. They will find a way to overrun us if we do not exterminate them first, or bring them to heel in our service. The king has no stomach for making war; he endangers us all by his weakness and shortsightedness—what of this idiot scheme to build a port at the Root? But so help me, brother, I’ll see Crosspointe safe if I have to spill every last drop of Jutras and Rampling blood.”

  Marten swallowed, taken aback at his brother’s quiet ferocity. “Still,” he said, sitting so that he could see both kneeling men, “it’s dangerous to keep them.”

  “Risk is necessary when the stakes are high. You know this. Which brings me to Miss Trenton. I confess to being pleasantly surprised at your success. Why don’t you tell me how you managed to pull off your victory and with such a virago?”

  The idea of discussing Lucy made Marten’s stomach turn. He wasn’t ready to think about it, much less tell Edgar. “It isn’t enough to know that I succeeded?”

  “Don’t play coy. You played her masterfully. Crow your triumph. I promise to be suitably impressed.”

  “You’ll have to be impressed with the results. The story is not worth telling.”

  Edgar stared speculatively, holding his fork and knife above his plate. At last he shrugged and began eating. “Suit yourself.”

  Silence fell between them. It wore on Marten until he couldn’t stand it.

  “I drugged her,” he blurted at last. “There was no other way.”

  “And she didn’t realize?”

  Marten flushed, giving a lopsided grin. “I…distracted…her.”

  “Ah.” Edgar ate silently a few minutes. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, but take my advice, Marten—she was just a bet. Don’t get involved with her. It won’t end well.”

  “What do you mean?” Marten couldn’t help the harshness in his voice.

  “Events are under way. Maybe if you hadn’t decided to give me the seals…but you did. The current has us now and we must ride it to the end.”

  “I don’t understand. What are you saying?”

  Edgar sat back in his chair, giving Marten a stern look.

  “I’m saying that with this win you’ve cleared most of your debts. You’re more free than you’ve been for a very long time. Don’t sacrifice that freedom for Lucy Trenton. She isn’t worth it. The war is beginning and there will be casualties. She’s going to be one of them. Steer a wide course, for your own sake.”

  Marten could only stare. Words failed him. What had he done? He wanted to ask questions, but Edgar’s expression was closed. He’d said all he was going to say. But Marten couldn’t leave it at that. His mind raced, and he struck on an idea—he’d come at it from another direction. He went back to eating, casually turning the discussion to the salvage and the missing blood oak.

  “Any word of who has it?” Marten asked.

  “Nothing’s turned up yet. The Crown Shields have taken over the investigation with the aid of the majicars. His Majesty is very motivated, as you might imagine. The majicars no less so. With Chance looming, the wood will be trapped here until the first ships can sail out again. It may give them the time they need to locate it before it vanishes altogether. I imagine if they don’t, the customs inspections after Chance will be stringent, indeed.”

  “And then when they find it, there will be a new port at the Root,” Marten said, watching Edgar from beneath his brows.

  “Not if I can help it. Rampling is a leech. Worse. He’s a fool. We’ve been cursed by his rule for two decades. We can’t let it go on any longer.”

  “I’m not sure what you can do about it. He’s a hale man,” Marten said lightly.

  “Hale men have been known to have accidents. Or fall sick.”

  Marten sucked in a soft breath. “All that would mean is a new Rampling on the throne,” he said slowly, beginning to understand the extent of his brother’s ambition. Edgar’s next words confirmed his conclusion.

  “That’s the crux of the problem, isn’t it? They breed like rats, the Ramplings. As for the people—they’re Pale-blasted, mindless fools. They’d elect a whore in Sweet Dreams, so long as she had a drop of legitimate royal blood. There must be three thousand or more heirs listed on the Wall, and hardly a single one capable of ruling. The people shouldn’t be allowed to make such decisions. They are sheep. They need to be told what to do and made to do it. As for the Rampling line, it needs to be eradicated—root, stem, and flower.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  Edgar looked at Marten measuringly. At last he answered. “There’s a sea change coming. Where do you stand, little brother? For Crosspointe? Or for yourself?”

  Marten shifted uneasily. “You’re the politician, not me. I’m a ship’s captain. That’s all I am. I have no interest in intrigues. Whether there is a port at the Root or no, I will still have a ship and the Inland Sea.”

  Edgar opened his mouth to speak, then visibly reined himself in and smiled thinly. “You’ll never change, will you? Predictable as the moon.” He shook his head, getting to his feet. “Never mind. You’re right. You’d be an abysmal politician. It is enough that you are the best captain on the Inland Sea; you help make me rich. So come, it’s time to collect your winnings. But first, let me pour you a drink. We need a toast.”

  He went to the sideboard and poured them both a healthy glass of Kalibrian whiskey and handed one to Marten. “To success: May we both get everything we deserve.”

  “To success.” Marten rolled the dark flavor on his tongue. “That’s good.”

  “It is one of my favorites,” Edgar agreed, pouring out more.

  Silence drifted between them again and Marten scrambled for something to say. At last he settled on the only safe subject he could think of.

  “The strike going to be a problem for you? Now the stevedores have joined in?”

  “We’re mostly unloaded and in for refitting. Except the Firedance. We’ll want her to run prisoners out to the Bramble before Chance.”

  Marten nodded. Edgar held a long-standing yearly contract to transport condemned prisoners to the Bramble. The Firedance was fast and maneuverable. Even with bad weather and unexpected obstacles, she could make the run to the Bramble and back before the Chance storms hit. He shook his head, his mouth tasting sour. Poor bastards. He wouldn’t wish that kind of fate on anyone.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t tell me you pity those fools? They knew what they were doing—they knew
the consequences. They can’t complain when the law gives them what it promised. And you must certainly agree that we cannot afford to feed useless people during Chance, not when we have such limited supplies. Think of the cost. This is much more efficient, and it allows the gods to decide their fate. Not everyone dies or become sylveth spawn. There is hope for survival. If they should have been wrongly found guilty.”

  “That’s a bag of moonshine. No one who’s gone to the Bramble has ever returned. At least, not in any form that anyone recognizes,” Marten retorted.

  “It gives the bastards a chance they wouldn’t have against an executioner, now, doesn’t it? Every one of us who breaks the law knows the potential cost. If you don’t like it, you stay out of the shadows. Or don’t get caught. That’s all there is to it.”

  He set his glass down with a clink. “Nobody on the Bramble ship is ever innocent, Marten. Not in any sense of the word. Don’t lose sleep for them. I certainly won’t. Now come with me and we’ll fetch your winnings.”

  Marten began to follow him, then glanced at the two Jutras still kneeling against the wall. “You’re going to just leave them here?”

  “They can do no harm, nor can they escape. They may look free, but they are bound in majick so tight they are lucky they can breathe.”

  With that, Edgar led the way back out of his private demesnes and into the warren of gaming parlors.

  Marten’s feet slowed as he felt the lure of the cards and dice. “Where are we going? I don’t want to play.”