Abruptly, I realized where I’d seen it. On Ioene, when Mieshk seized power from Captain Altak, she’d worn the uniform of a prime trader heir. The insignia of House Ulstat had been upon her breast.
If these visitors were representatives from Mieshk’s family, why were they guarded? Why the alarm?
I slipped into the crowd.
“They came in warships is what I heard,” one man said.
“Naw, Council went to fetch the Ulstats, but the family refused to come so the Council took these ones hostage,” someone else responded.
I shook my head. Rumormongers rarely had the story right, and even with my small size, I’d never shove my way through the mob. Turning back, I ran down a darkened alley and then took a side street which would bring me out on the other side of the square. As I made my final turn, I spotted Trader Yiltak again.
She was trotting now—traders didn’t sprint in public. Noticing me, she nodded. “With me,” she said.
I didn’t need any encouragement.
At the edge of the square, House Yiltak guards materialized from the crowd. I saw relief in their eyes. They’d probably been near panic when the alarm was sounded, after dark, with their patron nowhere to be found. Trader Yiltak’s height made her visible in even the densest crowd; they’d probably been waiting, as eager for a glimpse of her close-cropped hair as for a meal after a storm-tide fast.
Her trader mask firmly in place, Trader Yiltak simply nodded at them, offering no explanation for her tardiness. “The nightcaller is with me,” she said.
Forging a path through the crowd, the Yiltak guards quickly escorted us to the Council hall. Upon reaching the stairs, Trader Yiltak stopped. Many of the other traders had already assembled just outside the door.
“I see that Trader Ulstat has neglected to join us,” Trader Yiltak said. “Past his bedtime?” I noticed that she didn’t mention the warships. Either that was just a rumor, or she was failing to acknowledge them on purpose.
“He sends us in his stead, Trader Yiltak.” An older woman, apparently cast from the same angular mold that had produced Mieshk and her sentinel, Laiska, stepped forward.
“I’m sure you intend to explain why he shows this lack of respect to the Council, of which he is a senior member.”
“Inside,” the woman said. “Trader business is not for commoner ears.” With that, she cast a pointed look at me.
Ignoring her, Trader Yiltak produced the key to the Council Hall and unlocked the doors.
“We’ll convene a session. Whether we’ll deem your message valid—considering that it is not issued directly from an Ulstat throat—will depend on the contents.”
Inside the hall, the lamps still burned. I wondered whether they were ever snuffed, or whether the traders just didn’t care about the waste of lamp oil.
I stood to the side as the traders filed in, unsure where or whether I should sit. Trader Yiltak offered no guidance. When Heiklet’s grandfather shuffled through the door—he looked as if he’d been asleep when the alarm sounded, no surprise with the sun long since set—I caught his eye. I nodded at him, hoping to show support. No matter the trader calm he attempted to maintain, the anger he felt toward the Ulstats was visible on his face, in the stiffness of his shoulders.
Finally, the Ulstat representatives strode through the door. Guards from half a dozen Houses stepped into the doorway as soon as the officials had entered the building, hands on swords. Barred entry, the Ulstat guards took up positions on the stoop, but not before the leader made eye contact with the Ulstat woman who’d spoken. A slight nod passed between them. I wondered what it meant and considered informing Trader Yiltak, but decided that my attendance at the proceeding was uncommon enough. It wasn’t the time to make a nuisance of myself.
The traders took the seats I’d seen them occupy before while the Ulstat woman strode to the speaker’s podium. Either she’d attended a Council session before or she’d been coached before arriving. Surrounding her, the other Ulstat officials formed a semicircle, as if adding weight to her words.
“Shall we get on with it then?” Trader Yiltak asked. “Arriving in warships in the late hours without a proper Ulstat representative—frankly I’m tempted to escort you back to the quay. As far as I’m concerned, your House can either send an appropriate delegation or forfeit its council position.”
The Ulstat representative cast Trader Yiltak a sly smile. “It’s a difficult time when the heir of a household isn’t available to stand in for the prime trader, isn’t it. You must sympathize, with Moanet . . . absent.”
“My daughter’s actions are not your concern.”
“Perhaps not,” the woman said. She ran her eyes over the gathered traders. “And I apologize for the late hour. This won’t take long, particularly if you elect to meet the Ulstat demands without negotiation.”
“Demands?” I was surprised to hear Raav’s mother speak up. For that matter, I wondered where Frask was. Nowhere good, I assumed. Or sleeping off the night’s drinks.
The Ulstat representative nodded. “Indeed. I’ll start with the easiest. Heretofore, Mieshk Ulstat will be given sole dominion over the island Ioene.”
Protests erupted from the traders while I cringed. Mieshk? Officially ruling Ioene? Ridiculous.
Apparently, the traders felt as I did. Standing, they hurled insults at the speaker. Some of the representatives from the minor Houses crowded forward from the rear.
“Order!” Trader Yiltak yelled. She stood, using her height as an advantage once again. She didn’t have her gavel on hand, but her voice was effective enough. Though they didn’t sit, the traders quieted.
“Clearly, we reject your first demand,” she said mildly. “Any more?”
The representative inclined her head. I noticed that none of the other Ulstat officials seemed surprised by the traders’ reactions. In fact, most watched the speaker with a sense of eagerness. There was something else going on here. Warships or not, the Ulstats had no business taking on the Trader Council, and though madness ran in their family, I doubted that Mieshk’s father expected the demands to be met. Edging toward the semicircle of delegates, I watched keenly, opening my ears in case they tried to whisper to one another.
“Trader Ulstat further demands that the Kirillti capital be moved from the city of Istanik, on Stanik Island, to Ilaraok, upon Araok.”
“Madness!” Trader Srukolk was red in the face, his calm finally crumbled. And no wonder. Mieshk Ulstat had killed his granddaughter.
“Lastly,” said the representative, voice raised. The angry yelling of the traders covered her words, and she paused, apparently content to wait for quiet.
What does this mean for Ioene? Tyrak asked me.
I closed my eyes and focused my thoughts, struggling to concentrate with the noise.
I don’t know, I managed to say.
Returning my attention to the Council chambers, my brows drew together. Rather than standing at ease as they’d previously been, I noticed that the Ulstat officials had tensed. One of them was staring out a window on the southern wall. Tapping his neighbor with the back of his hand, he nodded. Something was happening.
From my position, I couldn’t see out the window. I wondered what the man had noticed out there. I slipped along the wall until I could get a look. Over the harbor, the night sky glowed a peculiar blue. Moving closer still, I understood. Though I couldn’t spot the source, new fires burned, the flames a deep azure. But what did that mean? With the alarm lamps burning red—they wouldn’t be doused without notice from the Council that the threat had passed—the blue must be a signal. Most likely, a means for the warships to communicate with the delegation.
Attempting to catch Trader Yiltak’s attention, I sidled toward the trader seats.
The first concussion knocked me from my feet. More booms shook the city as I sprawled, while a loud grating noise came from directly behind me. I rolled to see the wall open, a previously hidden door yawning in the polished marble stonework. A na
rrow hallway stretched into darkness, dotted every few paces by a dim candle lantern. A figure stood in the doorway, light from the council chamber falling on his face.
Frask Ovintak.
With a glance at me that quickly turned murderous, he gestured at the Ulstat delegates. They’d already begun moving, racing toward the secret exit. In their haste, they leaped my body. Flinching, I tucked my knees up to cover my belly.
Now, Tyrak said. Stop her.
Just one Ulstat official remained in the hall, the speaker. As she ran toward me, I kicked out. My foot tangled with hers, and she slammed the ground, chin splitting on the stone. Scrambling to my feet, I dove atop her. Raising Tyrak, I held the point of the blade against the back of her neck.
Frask’s eyes met mine. He stood paralyzed, unsure whether to abandon the woman. But something over my shoulder caught his attention, and he quickly decided. Raav’s brother retreated into the tunnel, shoving the door shut as House guards thundered for the passage. Throwing themselves at the closed portal, they scrabbled fingers over the marble in search of the seam.
No use. Whether the door only opened from the inside or whether Frask had managed to lock it, the passage was sealed over the Ulstat retreat.
Beneath me, the woman squirmed and grunted.
“She’s got one, you fools,” Trader Yiltak yelled, dashing toward me.
Moments later, a guard replaced my weight with a foot upon the Ulstat woman’s spine. Sword drawn, he laid it alongside her neck. She stilled, recognizing her odds.
As I clambered to my feet, Trader Yiltak looked me up and down. “Not bad. I suppose I owe you my thanks.”
It was the closest I’d get to a compliment, but I didn’t bother to bask in it. The days that I cared for trader regard were gone. I did, however, hope that this helped my case with the return to Ioene.
“Trader Yiltak,” someone called breathlessly. I turned to see a House Yiltak functionary approaching. The front doors to the hall had been reopened, and were once again defended by a wall of guards solid as iron.
Panting, the man stopped in front of Trader Yiltak, and went to a knee.
“It’s not the time for etiquette, Tren. What is it?”
The man stood. “It’s the harbor, Trader. It’s burning. Buildings toppled. The Ulstats have something we’ve never seen. Rumor is, they’ve figured out how to use the black powder from their mines in some sort of weapons.”
“They’re called cannons,” the Ulstat woman said from the floor. “We knew the demands would be rejected, so thought we’d offer a demonstration.”
I stared, disgusted. As if Mieshk hadn’t already caused enough problems, this conflict with her family would hopelessly delay the return to Ioene. Once again, I thought of Nan’s words. Maybe I should forget the traders. Focus on the resources I already controlled.
Captain Altak was on my side, and we had Zyri’s Promise to sail us, but—
Panic stole my breath. The harbor was burning, isn’t that what the guard said? Buildings demolished. Warships attacking.
Whirling, I ran for the door, no longer caring what passed between the traders. Zyri’s Promise was tied to the quay.
Chapter Seven
THE WATERFRONT WAS in chaos. Gaping holes had been ripped through warehouses and the offices of House clerks. Inside the buildings, scraps of burning paper danced on the night air, sparks whirling. Smoke poured from a dozen fires, set when torches and street lanterns were toppled. I coughed, blinked, squinting through darkness and flame for a glimpse of Zyri’s Promise.
She’d been moored at the far end of the quay. Smoke searing my lungs, I sprinted over stone blocks that had been reduced to shards, past heavy metal cleats smashed flat against the stonework. I couldn’t understand what could do this until I saw an iron ball resting in the crater it had smashed in the masonry.
My eyes turned to the warships, dark shadows crowned with blue flame. The vessels floated hundreds of paces away. A weapon that could hurl the heavy balls so far . . . I struggled to even imagine it.
Another scream tore me from my thoughts, and I continued on. There would be time to consider the implications of the Ulstat’s new cannons later.
Near the exit of one of the city streets, a makeshift hospital was already in use. The injured had been dragged clear of the waterfront and laid upon sacks of cargo, mattresses pulled from the nearby soldiers’ barracks, and in some cases, upon bare cobblestones. One of the men nearest the water had a broken leg. I swallowed, stomach clenching, at the sight of exposed bone. When he screamed, a healer handed him a small cup. Liquor or evenshade. Something to calm him.
I kept running.
Halfway down the waterfront, a large pit cratered the stonework, chips strewn, the ball bounced up and away to smash the glass windows of the harbor authority. I leaped the hole, and my sandals skidded on the loose rock opposite. My feet flew from beneath me and I smacked hard stone, rattling my teeth.
From the water beside me came a loud groan. A ship, still cleated to a pier which jutted from the main waterfront listed hard, her hull gaping where a ball had punched through. With the hull lit an angry red by the fires, the gash in her side was a black pit.
Zyri’s Promise momentarily forgotten, I stared, dumbstruck. As the ship heeled farther and farther, the pier shrieked and cracked in protest, pilings lifting from the harbor floor, dripping algae and mud. With a final moan, the decking toppled into the sea, and the ship sank with a splash quieter than I’d expected.
I clambered to my feet, wincing at the pain where my hip had slammed the stone. I set off at a sprint for Zyri’s Promise.
Around me, men yelled, aghast at the devastation, angry and confused. Where fires burned hottest, bucket brigades formed, anchored on one end by men tossing water onto the blaze, and at the other where people tied ropes to the bucket handles, lowering the containers down to the sea to fill.
Finally, I glimpsed her in the dimmer glow at the end of the waterfront. Because she’d been moored far from the buzz of daily harbor traffic, Zyri’s Promise had been protected from the onslaught. At least, no obvious holes marred her decks or rigging. Impervious to fire, she had nothing to fear from the blazes on the shore, but I saw that Captain Altak was taking no chances. Crewmen swarmed the deck and quay, uncleating lines and casting off. Upon the deck, the sail was raised to half mast, only enough to pull her away from danger.
Exhaling with relief, I finally turned back to the harbor. The trio of Ulstat warships hulked midway between me and the guardstones. Highlighted by crackling blue fire, the crew scurried across the decks, raising anchor and preparing the ships to move off. To save the vessels from retaliation, I assumed, though I imagined they’d not go far. The threat posed by the cannons only mattered if they remained in a position to use them.
From a sheltered cove on the far side of the harbor, I spotted a shadowy skiff skimming across the water. A handful of people sat in the middle of the boat, holding lanterns that silhouetted their figures, while four others pulled the oars. In the stern, a lone person sat. Squinting, I still couldn’t make out details. When the small vessel approached the closest warship, I decided it must be the delegation that had escaped from Council Hall. The man in the back of the boat was likely Frask. I wondered what they’d offered him. A position of power on Araok? The attack was well planned, considering the short time they’d had since our return. I wondered how long Frask had been waiting for such an opportunity.
Calls from the water caught my attention. Gliding across the darkened harbor, Zyri’s Promise slid into an area of the harbor with no structures along the shore. Shortly after, the sail was once again furled. A winch whirled as the captain dropped a sea anchor, allowing them to maintain position without pinning themselves to the harbor floor.
Confident that he’d keep her safe, I set off for the hospital intent on helping where I could. My weapon was once again stuck through my belt. For comfort, I laid a hand on the dagger’s pommel. Tyrak’s pommel. Somehow, the b
oy and the dagger were one.
Why do we do these things to each other? he asked.
Narrowing my thoughts, I shoved the words toward him. Our nature, I guess.
I wish it were different.
Me, too.
Ahead, a group of rough-looking men crept from an alley. Moving in a clot, eyes wary, they approached a stack of shipping-ready cargo, the crates stamped with the insignia of House Yiltak. A rope surrounded the pile; I assumed that Trader Yiltak would ordinarily have a guard posted over the goods, but that the men responsible had abandoned their post to help put out fires.
As the first of the looters ducked beneath the rope, I inched Tyrak from the sheath.
Don’t be stupid, he said.
I can’t let them take what they don’t own.
You’ve had one lesson in fighting. Even if you’d practiced for years, there are still too many.
Jaw clenched, I nodded. As they cracked open the first crate, I edged toward the water, walking near the low curb at the edge of the seawall. Through my palm, I felt Tyrak’s tension. When I’d nearly cleared the area, I broke into a trot then heard a shout from behind.
“Hey!”
I tensed and spun, thinking the men had noticed me. I raised the dagger, ready to attempt a defense.
I sighed in relief. A pair of city guardsmen approached from opposite the looters, hands on their cudgels. The robbers clustered together, laying hands on knives and slipping their fingers into brass knuckles. As the guardsmen approached, the largest of the looters stepped to the front.
“You defending trader scum? Easier to just walk away, yeah?”
One of the guardsmen spun his cudgel, a flick of the wrist. “Drop what you’ve taken and help with the fires, and Trader Yiltak won’t hear anything.”
“Help protect trader assets from burning, you mean? Hundred years paying their rotted defense tax, traders claiming they need that money to protect everyone, and then a trader House attacks the city. Probably used our own rotted tax money to build the warships. Only fair we take back what we’re owed.”
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