City of Betrayal

by Claudie Arseneault

  These two occupied one end of the table along with other members of their respective families and the city’s third House in importance: the Balthazars. Unlike many of Isandor’s Houses, which had grown through a network of foreign trades, the Balthazars had uncovered and exploited nearby mines and grown their coffers. They now occupied four seats around the Table—just one fewer than either the Allastams or the Lorns, who both held five. These three families together made up almost half the Golden Table. The nineteen remaining spots were distributed among the other Houses with enough influence to deserve them. In the end, fifteen different families held political power in Isandor. Everyone else had to pray they decided right. The state of the Lower City proved that didn’t always work out.

  Diel stopped next to Lady Carrington, single representative of House Carrington, which had also been among Isandor’s founding houses. They had once been a power to reckon with, but a botanical spell gone wrong had infected half of her people with virulent spores, and the string of deaths that followed had left the family in shambles. Lady Carrington had inherited it at the age of fourteen, and although trade allies had deserted the House, she had done a solid job of keeping everything together. Still, House Carrington should no longer have held their seat, but no one had demanded to see the family’s wealth status, and as a consequence, their position at the table wasn’t questioned.

  House Dathirii would get no such favour.

  Everyone edged toward their respective places. Diel brushed Garith’s back, and his nephew relaxed. He put the account books down on the smooth surface, glanced at his uncle, and smiled. They were as prepared as possible. Diel looked over the gathered nobles one last time. Most avoided his gaze, and the eyes of those who met it without hesitation held little sympathy. His throat tightened, and he wished Jaeger had come, to wait outside as usual. Branwen needed him, however. After a deep breath, Diel finished his look around by staring at Lord Allastam, raised his chin, and set his hands flat on the table.

  The Golden Table hushed. Isandor’s nobles weren’t fools. They knew the confrontation about to unravel, and the moment Diel locked eyes with Lord Allastam, they had drawn a collective breath. In the heavy ensuing silence, Lord William cleared his throat.

  Even by the standards of Isandor’s nobility, the man was an oddball. Unlike others around the table, he did not belong to a family, and William was his first and only name. His personal fortune sufficed to grant him a place on the council, and he barely participated in local struggles for trade deals, preferring drama plays, balls, and re-enactments of famous battles. A constant string of artists came and went from his house, but since William never interfered with the political strife in Isandor, nobles often called upon him to act as neutral ground in personal conflicts. He had tried and failed to resolve the Allastam-Freitz conflict a dozen times over the last decade. He was well-suited to the role of presiding over the Golden Table and guiding its debates. No doubt today would turn particularly heated.

  “We are the Golden Table, the heart of Isandor, the creators of its future.”

  Lord William’s cold voice boomed in the tense silence. Once, this sentence had begun a much longer, almost cult-like declaration that preceded meetings of the Golden Table. Even slashed down to this short version, Diel hated it. The heart of Isandor? The pretentious lie reeked of self-importance, but he had more significant fights ahead of him today and no energy to waste. He let Lord William continue—their president loved his dramatic introductions anyway.

  “Although our last meeting was not long ago, many events have unfolded since we bid each other goodbye. Several of them surround House Dathirii, and we have gathered to speak of their actions and status.” With a flourish, William turned to Diel. “Milord, if you desire, the honours of first speech are yours.”

  Diel shook his head. “I see no need.” He allowed his voice to carry and was relieved to hear his own resolute tone. The confidence Diel projected didn’t reach into his guts. Garith cast him an alarmed glance, but Diel knew his nephew would follow his lead, no matter how terrifying. “I know what I’ve done and see no wrong in it. I would rather defend myself against clear accusations instead of answering to whispers, rumours, and exaggerations. Let Lord Allastam state his complaint first.”

  Lord Allastam scoffed, infusing the sound with an amazing amount of disgust and derision. “We’re not here to discuss your disgraceful actions. We’re here to examine whether your wretched family even deserves a place around our illustrious Table.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. This has nothing to do with Lord Arathiel Brasten’s presence in my tower this morning.” Diel couldn’t keep the edge out of his voice. He hadn’t expected Lord Allastam’s level of aggressiveness. Wretched family? Insults around the Golden Table tended to be implied rather than direct. But if Lord Allastam didn’t plan to grant him a hint of respect, then Diel wouldn’t waste time on politeness. “I’m sure every lord here believes that.”

  His comment drew a smattering of snickers, but most of the nobles around the table looked aside. They might not believe it, yet none of them seemed willing to point out the obvious source of Lord Allastam’s attack.

  “Whatever else happens doesn’t change a simple fact, dear Diel: you sank House Dathirii’s entire fortune into a pointless war against the Myrian enclave. I would wager your dashing outfit this morning is worth more than what’s left in your coffers.”

  “That would be demonstrably false,” Garith replied. “Please do bet. From hearing you, we’re in desperate need of the gold you’d lose on such a gamble.”

  “I’m sure you are, but, unlike certain elves, I don’t waste money on lost causes.”

  “We haven’t lost yet,” Diel said.

  “Oh, come now.” Lord Allastam tapped the end on his cane on the ground twice. By his side, his son Drake snickered. “You have nothing to fight them with. Your allies are fleeing you, and your wealth is gone. What will you do? Blow them up? We all know that’s not your style. Far too … efficient.”

  “Just because you can’t see a way out doesn’t mean there isn’t one.” Diel straightened and spread his palms on the table. “I do have to wonder why my finances are called into question now, in the very middle of this confrontation with the Myrians. It’s unusual. By tradition, we give our own more leniency, allowing for a few months of recovery after a conflict before we reexamine any House’s finances.” Several eyes turned to Lady Carrington, present by the council’s grace. She didn’t waver under their stare—decades at the Golden Table had taught her everything she needed about composure. “But perhaps Lord Allastam only extends such courtesy to those who pay lip service to him.”

  “I pay such courtesy to the Houses worthy of it.”

  His choice of words cast silence around the Table. Somehow, “unworthy” rang worse than his earlier “wretched.” Allastam had often called rivals the latter, yet always considered them deserving of their position. A sneer curled his lips as his gaze rounded the gathered nobles.

  “What a magnificent silence. You’re a disgrace, Lord Dathirii, and your recent partnership with the freak who saved my wife’s murderer exemplifies it. Have you listened to yourself in the last, oh, decade at least? You’re so in love with Lower City filth and those emerging from it that you forget who your peers are.” He gestured widely at the Table. “They didn’t, however. No one here wants to defend you.”

  The silence grew even heavier. Blood rushed against Lord Dathirii’s temples, and even the tips of his fingers throbbed. He didn’t dare to look around the Golden Table and focused instead on staying upright, chin held high. Always before, when he had risen against the city’s conservative ways, a handful of other nobles would be nodding along with his arguments, or rolling their eyes at his opponents. Now, they remained stiff, not encouraging Lord Allastam, but certainly not countering him. Diel stood alone against everyone, and although he had suspected this might happen, he struggled to contain his rising panic. Diel exhaled slowly, forcing his brea
thing into a regular pattern. He didn’t need them. If no one around Isandor’s Golden Table could see how twisted this was—how secondary Arathiel’s one-day freedom should be in comparison to repudiating the Myrians—then perhaps he didn’t want to call them peers.

  “I’ll defend him.”

  Lady Brasten’s deep, young voice shattered the silence. Diel’s heart jumped as he spun to face her, a wave of relief coursing through him. She stood halfway between him and Lord Allastam, straight and proud, her dark brown eyes meeting Diel’s briefly before they turned to Lord Allastam. Lady Brasten had chosen a silver dress for the occasion, its heavy velvet enhancing her thick rolls of fat and contrasting against her dark skin. Her lips pressed in a thin line, she flicked her myriad of twists and raised her head. All of a sudden, she seemed to fill the entire room.

  “House Brasten has, of course, condemned the actions of our most recent, yet oldest, member. But if I recall correctly, so has House Dathirii. I will say this: we are glad one of our own no longer rots in a cell in conditions far from acceptable for one of his status.”

  “He freed—”

  “I’m well aware.”

  Lady Amake Brasten shrugged, exemplifying a calm and confidence neither Lord Allastam nor Diel had shown so far. Regal and wise, she commanded everyone’s attention, and Diel thanked the gods for her presence at his side. He had an ally, someone willing to defend him, who had expressed gratitude for his actions. Someone ready to take Lord Allastam down a peg in one simple and beautiful sweep.

  “You may not realize this, Lord Allastam, but your son is known to harass commoners and beat them. He has a horrendous reputation in several respectable taverns, and I daresay only his title keeps their doors open.” Everyone knew Drake’s reputation, and Diel caught slight nods from other nobles around the table. Tales of his misbehaviour travelled both to the highest and lowest levels of Isandor, whispered about to avoid trouble. Drake himself was fuming, fists curled on the table, glaring at Lady Brasten. She continued as if she hadn’t noticed, her hands flitting through the air as she spoke. “Yet no one here questions his worth, or yours for protecting him from legal consequences. Should we? You seem to think of Lord Arathiel’s single mistake as an unforgivable act that should inform our opinion of everyone he allies with. This is why I’ll defend Lord Dathirii and his family. You berate him for forgetting his peers, but willingly omit any consideration for Lord Arathiel’s title and position within my House. I question your logic and your coherence, and find your incessant attacks on Lord Dathirii’s character quite undignified. Our records show Lord Arathiel to be kind and loyal, prompt to self-sacrifice. I have been given no reason to believe otherwise.”

  “No.” Lord Allastam slammed his cane against the ground. “He is a monster, an abomination of nature held together by magic unknown and unhealthy. I have read the reports. He should not be alive.”

  “Yet he is, returned to us by the grace of Evzen, who rules over both Death and Rebirth, and I recognize his claim to our house.” Lady Brasten laid down the words with finality, closing the matter. She tilted her head to the side then, her expression softening. “Milord, I have lost much of my family to illness and understand your grief. I remember Lady Allastam inviting me to dance as a young girl. Your wife was a beautiful and generous person, and she is still missed by all of us, every day. Isandor has witnessed the depth of your sorrow, but you’re misdirecting it. This assassin is your only solid lead to the true culprit. If you see him dead, we’ll never uncover who hired him. Don’t you want to know?”

  At first, it seemed like Lord Allastam listened to her, his stern expression firm but open. Yet as Lady Brasten spoke, his sneer crawled back, and a dangerous light shone in his dark eyes. His knuckles whitened on his cane, and he banged it hard at her question, making several nobles around the table jump.

  “How dare you suggest I don’t care about Elena’s death! I have—”

  “I never—”

  “Enough, shut up!” He half-snarled the words, and although Lady Brasten obeyed, she met his glare without flinching. “You’re implying I should overlook how this dark elf slit my wife’s throat to work with him, a distasteful suggestion if I ever heard one. Couch your words in false sympathy all you want, Lady Brasten, but you’ve yet to experience brutal loss.”

  “Yet?” For the first time since she’d spoken up, Lady Brasten’s countenance slipped. Her voice cracked, and she gripped the table with both hands. Diel wished he could express his sympathy. The very illness that had claimed Arathiel’s sister continued to affect the family as a whole, passed down through generations, ripping lives apart.

  “That’s enough,” Lord Dathirii said, and though his voice stayed controlled and soft, it carried through the room. Diel nodded in Lady Brasten’s direction, both as thanks for her support and acknowledgment of her pain. “House Brasten deals more closely with loss than any of us. I believe you’ve made your vendetta against Arathiel and any who would dare stand by him clear. Stop pretending this is about anything but vengeance, and let’s get it over with. I have no patience for lords who think so highly of themselves that they destroy other Houses and put the entire city at risk of being overtaken by the Myrians for the sake of their petty feelings.”

  “You’re always so melodramatic, Diel.” His sneer firmly in place, he leaned back from the table. Drake snorted besides him, but most of the gathered nobles didn’t dare react. “I consider the Myrians economic partners, not conquerors. Don’t get angry because I won’t side with freaks and murderers like you do.”

  “They’re slavers, but why would that bother you? The step between cheap labour and slavery is small, and you’ve always advocated for paying pennies to the poor folk forced to drag our buckets of piss to the slides. I refuse to bow to the Myrian Empire, nor will I allow corrupt mercenary leaders to blame their crimes on subordinates and escape justice.”

  At the room’s collective intake of breath, Lord Dathirii knew he’d stumbled. Too much emphasis on the “I.” How many in this room had denied him help when he asked for it? How many had congratulated Lord Allastam on the capture of his wife’s assassin, perhaps suspecting Brune was shoving responsibility where it didn’t fully belong? Diel didn’t need to attack them directly. They would know this concerned them too. They would feel assaulted and withdraw. He stared ahead, resisting the urge to examine their reaction more thoroughly. It would be admitting his mistake. With a victorious smirk, Lord Allastam raised his hands in a movement that could only mean ‘you see?’

  “Such disdain for your peers,” he said.

  A part of Diel wanted to defend himself, to deny it. Yet his throat tightened, blocking words he knew would be lies. His peers, as Allastam said, always stood by and watched in silence when there was no direct gain for them. Some had excuses—the Carringtons couldn’t afford to speak up, and Lady Brasten had despite the risks—but so many of Isandor’s nobles had only ambition and misplaced pride to guide them. He did have disdain for them, for their egoism and shortsightedness. Right now, standing under their reproachful gazes, Diel found he had little respect left for any of them. But his job was to mask that, to make allies out of them despite his feelings, and he had failed.

  “Garith, please show the Golden Table our wealth reports.”

  His nephew grew paler, and the bags hidden behind his glasses seemed more obvious to Diel. “Isn’t there a vote?” he squeaked.

  In normal circumstances, there would be one to decide if it was worth it to open a House’s finances and reevaluate its status. The Golden Table had assembled early for that specific purpose, however, and Diel had just messed up. He motioned with one hand for the other nobles to raise theirs if they were in favour, and all but three did. Lady Brasten placed both hands in front of her and offered him a saddened smile. Lord Khaldun also refused—his family had recently climbed to the Golden Table, and not without a fair bit of help from Diel. The third, to Diel’s surprise, was Lord William. The Table’s president watched hi
m with a smirk, as if the entire process was nothing more than a game. Lord Dathirii hid his irritation over William’s careless attitude and thanked each of them with a nod while Garith opened his account book and several scrolls.

  “There’s a lot of it.” The brief vote had sufficed for Garith to regain his countenance, and his tone turned serious, almost solemn. His nephew would know what he had to do now. His seat at the Golden Table would not survive this trial, but Diel’s place might also be compromised. Whatever followed, however, would not be Garith’s fault. Soft pride warmed Diel as he watched him straighten, meet the other nobles’ gazes, and add calmly, “Let me walk you through it.” Garith might spend a lot of time playing around and flirting, but he always rose to the task when needed.

  The Golden Table spent the next hour arguing over numbers and their meanings. The others battered Garith with questions about his methods, implying more often than not that he was faking these incomes, and Diel’s nephew answered each in a calm and serious tone. He had likely tried to disguise the extent of their debts, but Diel had advised him not to go overboard. Counting tricks didn’t survive the Golden Table’s examination, and they’d tolerate none of them.

  By the time the nobles seemed satisfied with their answers, Diel had acquired a solid headache and the desire to dive into the Reonne’s waters to refresh himself and block out all sounds. The lords and ladies passed Garith’s notes around one last time, and everyone was allowed a final question. When all was said, Lord William gestured to the great gates leading into the Golden Table’s hall.