by Devin Hanson
“The acting constable, my lord. He brings news of the hunt for the murderers that plague our city.”
Trent turned away from his study of one of the friezes and rasped, “What news does he bring? Good news?”
“I do not know, my lord,” the guard replied. “But he seemed of good cheer and eager to speak with the duke. It would not be so were the news dire.”
Trent turned back to the frieze, and Corvis could tell by the set of his shoulders that his son was angry. Corvis felt zero sympathy. If you flaunt the law so directly, you can hardly be surprised when action is taken against you.
“It would happen that my own reasons to speak with the duke are in the same vein,” Corvis said. “It could save everyone time, if we were to be part of this council. On the duke’s pleasure, of course.”
The guard hesitated then nodded. “I will have your request brought to the duke. Excuse me.”
It didn’t take long before the double doors swung open and the guard ushered them into the reception hall. The Lord of the Westmarch held audience in a columned room as massive as a cathedral. The theme of the antechamber was continued and expanded upon, with marble floors and beautifully detailed friezes. The duke himself sat upon a great marble chair, inlaid with exquisitely carved exotic woods, a throne in all but name.
To Corvis, who didn’t have a throne in an audience room or even the occasion to have one, the whole setup felt ostentatious. Then again, the Priah title was simply that – a title. There were no lands that came with it, no serfs or holdings, and no tax rights. At the same time, Corvis didn’t have to spend half his days solving disputes between dirt farmers who couldn’t remember who owned which cow, or deal with outbreaks of crime. It would follow, he decided, that if peasants were paying taxes, they’d expect their lord to have a fancy reception hall. Kind of a vicarious display of wealth, something tangible they could point at and see where their tax money was going.
In front of the duke, a young man in the leather coat of a lawman was speaking excitedly, waving his arms and all but jumping up and down. As Corvis entered the room with Trent on his heels, the lawman schooled himself to outward calm.
“Ah, Baron Priah,” Cassius Emberlain, Duke of Ardhal and Lord of the Westmarch greeted them.
Corvis bowed and felt Trent do the same behind him. At least his son was behaving himself. “My lord Duke.”
“My guardsman tells me you have interest in the matter of the murders?”
“I do indeed, but I have been out of the city for the last several days, overseeing my interests at the airship yards.” Corvis heard Trent shifting behind him and desperately hoped he wouldn’t speak or do something to draw attention to him. “I spoke with the constable when I arrived. A terrible situation.”
“Resolved now,” the duke said cheerfully. This close, Corvis could see the signs of long-term stress in the duke. His eyes were baggy and shadowed, his posture bent. The duke seemed to have more wrinkles and white hair than he remembered. “Though the constable got somewhat the worse of an engagement with the cultists, he claims to have struck down one of the leaders. It is mid-day now, and no further reports of deaths or missing people have come up. I dare hope the cultists have gone into hiding.”
“Excellent news, my lord.”
“Did the constable provide the name of the… cultist?” Trent rasped. There was a long pause, after which he added, “My lord.”
The duke leaned forward and peered under Trent’s hood. “Uncover yourself, man. I would know with whom I speak.”
Trent hesitated then pulled back his hood, revealing his ravaged features. Corvis felt his stomach clench at the sight and wondered again at the cost his son had paid to gain his power. The duke’s jaw tightened and his lips paled slightly as he pressed them together. The two guards glanced at each other, eyes wide.
“I remember your face,” the duke said, his voice lowered to almost a whisper. “Your war has not been kind to you, young Priah.”
Trent smiled a rictus grin, his lips pulled askew from the scars. “In some ways, my lord. In others, I have gained more than I lost.”
Duke Emberlain nodded. “Someday I would like to hear the story behind your scarring. For now, Mr. Carmine, tell the lords what you told me.”
Wesley Carmine swallowed and took half a step toward the baron and his son. “Of course, my lord Duke. The constable and his men tracked the murderers to the old grain tower on the edge of town. There was a great battle, but at the end of it, all the murderers and the cultist leader were slain.”
“Was a name given?” Trent asked.
“I heard it in passing only. Lamad? Something of the sort.”
Trent nodded once, but Corvis knew the signs of his son’s anger held tightly in check. “How was such a thing possible? Surely the lawmen had assistance?”
Carmine glanced back at the duke and spread his hands in uncertainty. “There were a few others that joined the constable, a handful of merchant guards and an alchemist. Not much a force, if you ask me.”
“The alchemist must have tipped the tide of the battle. They can be terrible opponents,” the duke guessed.
“I wasn’t there,” Carmine admitted. “All I have are second-hand accounts. It did come as a surprise to me when I learned of it, though. The lawmen tried to attack the cultists in their den the day before and died to a man.”
“These merchant guards,” Corvis asked, “where do they hail from?”
“I believe they were Maar, my lord,” Carmine said. “They had dark skin and accents to go with it, though they seemed to speak better Salian than any I had encountered before.”
The duke sat up straight, surprise on his face. “There are Maar trading in Ardhal? This is news to me. Ever since the death of the crown prince, the Maar have been scarce in Salia.”
“One would think that was a sign of guilt,” Trent rasped. “It is strange, is it not, a sudden spate of murders at the same time Maar are found within the city again?”
Corvis saw where Trent was going with the suggestion. It was a risky play, as any investigation would show the Maar had arrived after the murders had started. But playing on existing prejudice and hatred was a sure way to make otherwise level-headed men leave their powers of reason behind.
“Surely you don’t suggest the Maar were murdering our citizens,” the duke said with a frown. “Carmine here just finished telling how they aided us in killing off these cultists!”
“Were no cultists captured?” Trent asked. “How were these cultists located?”
“The Maar helped us find them…” Carmine trailed off. “No, the Maar aided the constable. He was very clear on that point.”
“Or fooled into thinking so,” Corvis added. It was time to sink his own barb. If he could help redirect the attention of the duke, it would make hiding future excesses of Trent’s easier. “You said an alchemist was with the Maar?”
“I didn’t see it myself,” Carmine said, “but that’s what the reports say.”
“Andronath has an army of Maar, led by that psychopath Andrew Condign,” Trent pointed out with a humorless smile. “The only Maar within a hundred miles owe him allegiance. Maar and alchemists? Sounds to me like Andronath is trying to create chaos within Salia.”
The duke pushed himself to his feet and paced back and forth in front of his chair. “You make a serious suggestion, Trent Priah. War with Andronath would be a terrible thing. Our cities already feel the strain of not having alchemists. We need to be repairing our relations with them, not accusing them of murder within Salia without proof.”
“What if I could bring you proof?” Trent asked. “I know Andrew Condign. He is the one that did this to my face. The alchemists think him to be some sort of prophesied messiah, but he’s nothing more than a boy playing with power he doesn’t understand.”
“My lord,” Corvis said, taking a step forward and placing himself between Trent and the duke. He hoped Trent would understand that enough had been said for the moment. T
he seed of the idea had been planted. Pushing it too hard, too fast, would only make the duke question it. “Whether proof could be found of this Condign’s involvement in the murders is something to look into, and I would offer my services in finding the truth of the matter. But more important is finding these Maar and detaining them before they can flee the city.”
“You speak sense, Baron. Guards! Send word. I want these Maar brought before me. Be cautious, and treat them with respect. We do not know yet if they are guilty of anything beyond aiding Ardhal.”
One of the guards saluted crisply and dashed away.
“We’ll know the truth of it soon,” the duke promised, his face grim. “In the meantime, it is nearly noon. Come, dine with me while we wait. Mr. Carmine, I presume you have business within the city?”
“I do, my lord.”
“Find out the truth of the matter. Talk to your lawmen, find out what happened at that grain tower.”
“At once, my lord.” Carmine bowed and left.
The duke set a frugal table for lunch. A table was brought in and set with cheeses and fruits, but none of the meats and pastries that were common among nobility. The duke ate standing, and passed the time while they waited for news, with small talk of the king’s court.
Corvis kept up his side of the discussion, but his mind was on how to convince the duke to assign guards to the construction yard. As things stood, there would be little chance of that happening. Without the guards, Howell would take his people out of Ardhal and construction on the airships would come to a halt. Ardhal’s economics centered around the construction yard. Perhaps the duke would assign the requisite guards just to keep Howell from leaving.
Corvis had started to steer the conversation in that direction when a guard entered the hall and ran up to the duke, panting and dripping sweat from his run.
“My lord!” he cried, “the Maar have left Ardhal. They booked passage on an airship this morning and lifted off just minutes before we arrived.”
The duke threw down the slice of apple he was eating and brushed his hands clean. “Thank you.” He stood thoughtful while the guard left and servants cleared away the lunch table then said. “It seems, my lords, that proof will be hard to come by, but the hasty departure of the Maar speaks ill of them.”
“Criminals, fleeing the scene of their crime,” Trent growled.
“Perhaps.”
Corvis saw an opening to achieve his purpose and spoke up. “My lord. If these Maar do seek to threaten Salia, what better way to do it than to strike at the heart of our military strength? If they were to disrupt the airship construction yards, it would cripple Salia for years to come.”
The duke shook his head. “I spoke with Howell just recently. He has not had a single murder among his people. That can’t be their purpose.”
“No longer, I’m afraid. My lord, only yesterday one of Howell’s people was killed within one of his warehouses.” From the corner of his eye, Corvis saw Trent smirk.
The duke’s face darkened. “Why didn’t you mention this before!”
“My apologies, my lord. It was in fact my purpose for coming to you today. Howell says that without sufficient protection to guarantee the safety of his people, he will pull them out and flee the city.”
“Burn that man. He would bring ruin to Ardhal. Very well. I cannot spare lawmen from the city, but I will send a detachment of my house guards. A score of riflemen should grant Howell the security he needs.”
“What of your own safety, my lord?”
The duke waved a hand. “The Maar fled the city, did they not? At any rate, twenty men less would not alter my security. The guards might have to walk longer shifts, but it will be good for them.”
“As you say, my lord. Howell awaits my return. I should go to him.”
“As you will, Baron. Tell Howell he’ll have his protection before sun down.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Corvis dropped into a bow and saw Trent do the same. “I return now, with all haste.”
Chapter 15
The Guild Master Vote
It was full dark when the airship drifted the last several feet to the mooring tower platform and the lines were made fast. The last ruddy glow of the setting sun had faded a few minutes earlier and the captain had been almost hysterical with worry. There wasn’t anything Andrew could say to the man to calm him. Wild claims of being perfectly safe because he could speak to dragons would not have helped defuse the tension.
Andrew crossed to the platform and tilted his head back to look up at the stars. The last time he had arrived in Andronath by airship, it was with a force of wardens to take the city back from Trent’s occupying forces. Far below on the twisting streets of the city, he caught a glimpse of a warden sprinting for the Academy. News of the Speaker’s return would spread through the city faster than rumor.
He sighed. There had been a time not too long ago that his greatest ambition was to have enough money in his pocket to buy something hot for dinner. Jules walked past him and he followed the sway of her hips with his eyes, feeling his melancholy evaporate slowly. Being the Speaker might be a burden, but it wasn’t all bad.
Iria paused next to him and said, “I need to return to the Academy. We have been gone longer than I expected.”
Andrew shrugged. “If you want. I don’t need you with me.”
“Adnan will remain close.”
“I’m sure he will.”
Iria frowned at him, but left him alone on the platform. Andrew stayed on the platform enjoying the cold breeze off the mountains until the bustle of cargo handlers arriving to unload the airship broke the spell the night had put on him.
As he had done a hundred times on the flight back to Andronath, he felt for the mental nudge that told him where Avandakossi was. She was somewhere to the north. His sense of distance for her was never very accurate. She could be ten miles or a hundred miles away.
“She’s still gone?”
Andrew blinked and looked down at Jules. Her eyes were dark emerald, almost black, but the gold flecks in them caught the lamplight. “Still. It hasn’t even been two weeks yet.”
Jules pressed close to him and rested her head on his shoulder. “She’s fine. I’m sure of it.”
The tower lift clanked to a halt and disgorged another load of workers. Andrew waited for them to pass then stepped aboard, peripherally aware of Adnan following close behind him. Even in Andronath the wardens felt he had to be protected. He tightened his arm around Jules and drew her close, burying his nose in her hair.
Jules relaxed against him. In the distance, a galloping horse could be heard, drawing closer. He sighed again and Jules lifted her head back to look up at him.
“What is it?”
“Sometimes I dislike being the Speaker. I just got back. I want a bath and to spend the night alone with you, not talking to important people and handling their problems for them. They must have managed before I came along, why do they need me now?”
Jules smiled and reached up to give him a quick kiss. “It isn’t all bad, is it?”
“When you put it that way, no.”
The lift jarred to a halt at the bottom and Adnan stepped forward, using his bulk and warden uniform to clear a path through the next group of workers waiting to ride the lift up. Andrew followed in his wake with Jules at his side.
Someone in the press of workers called out, “Hail, Speaker!” Heads turned and recognition lit their faces. Adnan paused, his hand jumping to his sword hilt, reluctantly relaxing when Andrew flashed a hand sign at him to desist. Andrew waved back at the workers and got broad smiles in return.
“They like you,” Jules said once they had passed by. “They know you saved their city.”
“It wasn’t me,” Andrew said, but he smiled back at her. “The wardens did the hard work.” Having the workers recognize him had dispelled the last of his gloom.
“The wardens go about masked half the time,” Jules pointed out. “They recognize you. You’re th
e face of the wardens and everything good that has come from their arrival automatically reflects on you.”
“And everything bad. Hopefully when winter comes and everyone’s on half rations they still feel the same way,” Andrew said, but his heart wasn’t in the argument.
A horse came galloping around the corner up ahead, its shoes throwing sparks as it fought for its footing. The warden riding it spotted them and dragged the reins back, slowing the horse to a stop next to them. Adnan had somehow gotten between Andrew and the horse, but backed off when the warden pulled his mask off.
“My lord Speaker!” he cried, dismounting and falling to a knee, breathing hard from his gallop.
“Easy, man. Stand up. What’s the hurry?”
“A great many things have happened since you traveled to the south,” the warden said. “The guild master is dead and the alchemists prepare for a vote.”
“Oh. I guess that’s good. The Guild should not be without a leader.”
Jules stepped forward and asked, “Who are the candidates?”
“Professor Kilpatri is the primary competition, Lady Vierra, though many are for the Speaker.”
Jules nodded but Andrew spoke first. His voice was tight, his brief good humor evaporated. “What do you mean, they’re for me?”
“Why wouldn’t they be?” Jules questioned back seriously. “You are the most powerful alchemist in written history, Andrew. The Guild has always been a meritocracy. The only thing that should be surprising is that there is a vote at all.”
“I don’t want this, Jules,” Andrew growled. Circumstances always seemed to run away with him. Events snowballed until they were out of his control. He had to put a stop to this now. “It is bad enough that I have my duties as the Speaker. If they force me into the role of guild master too, I will be stuck in Andronath. My fight is against the Incantors, not petty politics!”
Jules glared back at him, but seemed to sense his anger and desperation. The fight left her and she spread her hands. “Fine. We will speak about this more, but not here. When is the vote to take place, Warden?”
