City of Betrayal

by Claudie Arseneault

  Nevian’s head buzzed, discomfort mixing with pleasant surprise. Most people found him annoying—too stubborn and disinterested in their problems to be worth their time—and Nevian enjoyed the tranquility this granted him. He thought most of them bothersome either way. Not Vellien, however. Never Vellien, and the joy that simple ‘I like you’ had brought Nevian troubled him. Did he like them? He knew he would gladly set aside studying for them, and perhaps he ought to consider that a sign. He trusted Vellien with his mind and memories. Had any other part of him ever mattered more? Nevian didn’t want the complicated expectations that came with a relationship, however. He enjoyed Vellien’s company because they had explored his head and didn’t demand anything of him but himself. Nevian hoped that would never change.

  “Thank you,” he said. Disappointment flashed through Vellien’s expression, and Nevian swallowed hard. “We can negotiate, erm, the meetings and everything else then. Is that … is that sufficient?”

  Vellien’s little amused snort sent a wave of relief through Nevian. “Of course.” And then, more softly, as if they had followed Nevian’s thoughts despite not residing in them at the moment, they added, “You will always be more than sufficient, Nevian.”

  ✵

  Sneaking out of Larryn’s Shelter unseen while carrying the large pot containing everyone’s meal proved even harder than entering the Myrian enclave. Hasryan and Vellien avoided the common room to slip out, instead using the usually condemned door at the back of the Shelter that led into the tower proper. Hasryan wondered if Larryn would one day buy the second floor of this building, to create his children-safe area within the Shelter. It seemed like forever since they had last discussed his friend’s long-term plans.

  Not a minute of their walk passed in which the young Dathirii didn’t stare back at Hasryan, lips pinched, guilt and curiosity warring in their face. Hasryan didn’t comment. Most likely, Vellien would build up the courage to voice whatever went through their mind before long—and indeed, no sooner had they climbed out of the worst of the Lower City than they spoke up.

  “Um … Mister Hasryan, sir? I-I wanted to apologize.”

  Hasryan tilted his head to the side. “What for? Don’t take the blame for Larryn’s misbehaviour.”

  “No, no! I like Larryn. I mean …” Their small laugh betrayed their unease. “He scares me now, but before tonight, we had managed a truce, and the Shelter is wonderful. I hope I can return and help more one day. I like what he does there.”

  “It’s incredible—the only place I ever called home,” Hasryan agreed. “You may have to give Larryn time before you can return. I roughed him up, but he needed to hear it. But what are you sorry for, if not tonight?”

  “For Camilla.” Vellien stopped at the bottom of a staircase. “I’m the one who put it all together and understood she protected you, and I panicked because I had no idea what you meant to each other, so I told Kellian all about it, and it landed her in prison. I shouldn’t have.”

  Shouldn’t Vellien apologize to Camilla instead? What was he supposed to answer to that? No one ever said sorry to him, and niceties remained an unknown territory. “It’s fine, kid,” he said, embarrassed. “I wish she was with us tonight. I never got to thank her.”

  “I saw her earlier!” Vellien climbed the first steps, clearly eager to make it up to Hasryan. The assassin hurried after them, Larryn’s heavy pot unwieldy in his arms. He shouldn’t go so fast and risk losing his balance on these bridges—no railing would stop his fall—but neither did he want to linger. “I felt terrible, so I sought her out.”

  “How is she?”

  “Fearful,” Vellien said, “but not even for herself. She worried about whether you could escape, or how the Golden Table would go. She acted calm, but she asked me to sing. I know she finds the sound soothing—she thinks Alluma slips into my voice. A-anyway … I’m sure she would be thrilled to learn you sought Uncle Diel.”

  Hasryan laughed. “No doubt.”

  How often had Camilla strongly hinted he could trust her nephew? The idea hadn’t entered his head on its own. She had aimed for this since the start, and he owed a lot of his current situation to her. Without Camilla’s subtle pushing, Hasryan would have tried to vanish as soon as Kellian left with her. It wouldn’t have crossed his mind to give Lord Dathirii early warning of her arrest, or to agree to work with him. He would have escaped Isandor to start from scratch elsewhere, alone and depressed. Instead, he had found new allies, extended his circle of trust, and tied himself down further. When he had chosen to trust Esmera with the secret of his presence with Camilla, he had chosen to stay and fight for his place here, no matter the cost. Camilla had offered him friends to stand by his side and, albeit unknowingly, the opportunity to reach both Cal and Larryn. It had been a long day, and his leg would hurt for a while, but as Hasryan led Vellien back toward Cal’s home, he decided it had been a good one. Productive and heartwarming. For once, his life had turned around in the right direction. Then Vellien interrupted his thoughts.

  “Sir, can I ask you another question?” they said. “The coup you mentioned in front of Larryn …”

  Knots reappeared in Hasryan’s stomach. He might come out of this mess with new allies, but the Dathirii no longer had a home, and who knew what had happened to several of them? “We’re not going to the Dathirii Tower,” he said. “Lord Dathirii can tell you more, but here’s what I learned …”

  Hasryan explained Lord Allastam’s brutal maneuver earlier that day, and with every spoken word, he grew more convinced he had stayed to fight not only for his place in Isandor, but also for his friends’—which, starting tonight, would include House Dathirii.

  Branwen snoozed against her uncle, clinging to a sliver of wakefulness only through her worried anticipation of Hasryan’s return. Diel had an arm around her shoulders, and she suspected he was slipping in and out of sleep too. Neither of them had uttered a word for the last quarter-hour. Nothing else needed to be said.

  She had first settled against him and nestled in his pillow bed to ask about Garith’s performance at the Golden Table, and Uncle Diel had indulged her with surprising tales of bravery. He might have embellished them a tad, but Branwen didn’t mind. Every time she thought of her favourite cousin being shoved into a wall by brutish Allastam soldiers, stones dropped to the bottom of her stomach. She preferred to imagine him standing up to a hostile council of nobles and slinging witty retorts at Hellion. It eased her fidgeting, and perhaps she wouldn’t leave clear marks where she rubbed her fingers into her dress this time.

  But then Diel had fanned the flames of her stress anew, albeit in a very different manner.

  “I always thought the day I would lose this family, it would be to you and Garith—that I’d grow old and out of touch and would have the wisdom to pass it to the two of you.”

  She had laughed, unable to take him seriously. Why would he want her to lead? She pranced around town in disguises, chatted people up, and brought back gossip and funny tales. Garith made a better choice: he had a head for numbers, had sat at the Golden Table, and looked like the glorious golden elf a Head of the Dathirii House should. But Diel had squeezed her shoulder.

  “Don’t downplay your skills, Branwen. People trust you—not only nobles, but other citizens too. When they gossip to you like you’re one of theirs, whether you’re pretending or under your own name, they open a window into their lives. It’s important to listen. Camilla taught me a lot about Isandor through her charges, and you through your rumours. What we do here”—he gestured at Cal’s painfully colourful room—“it matters. Always, those living in bridges below can tell you what this city needs. The hardest is to make your peers listen, too. I never had the patience.”

  Branwen snorted. “And you think I have more? Don’t talk like you’re dead or gone, Uncle. We came close enough tonight, but I’m not letting you disappear.”

  “Good. I don’t want to leave.”

  She leaned into him, still stunned by his w
ords. She had no desire to lead House Dathirii, but his vote of confidence warmed her heart. She would always remember that her uncle—her worker of miracles, the uncle who’d braided her hair as a young girl and comforted her when she cried, the one who had been there when her parents vanished—believed in her. Maybe she ought to do the same.

  Diel had fallen silent, leaving her to sort through her pride and exhaustion, and they had both almost gone to sleep when the front door creaked open. Vellien stepped in first, shoulders hunched, as if worried they were intruding—no doubt they hated not knocking before entering. Branwen jumped to her feet, and by the time Hasryan had slipped inside, she had wrapped her younger cousin in a tight hug. Her stomach unwound, and she only realized then how afraid she had been. Branwen compensated by pinching their cheek with a laugh. “Tell me all about your terrible kidnapping. We got something new in common!”

  Vellien batted her hand away, their bright smile washing off the earlier worry. “I’m fine. I spent the evening in a room with Nevian.” Their voice shook, and they avoided her gaze. Branwen knew they had omitted a lot.

  “Tsk. No being whisked through intense flames? No simulating hot sex in the middle of the day to scare unwanted visitors away? You must have worthy news to share.”

  Hasryan’s eyebrows shot up while Vellien turned redder than Cal’s bright pillows. “I don’t—no, no sex with Nevian! He’s asexual and struggles with touch. Why would I ever do that?”

  Branwen grinned. “Look at you, not even denying the interest! No wonder you were always so eager to go down there and help.”

  “They gripped his hand through the scarier parts,” Hasryan added, his tone gentle and teasing.

  Cal gasped, then squealed, then pressed a fist to his mouth to keep the rest of his emotions inside. It didn’t last. “That is so adorable. I didn’t even notice! But he’s so grumpy and rude, and you’re calm and sweet and patient and—”

  “We brought food,” Hasryan interrupted. “We’ll need plates, Cal. Maybe think about the hundred ways you love this in your head while you get them?”

  “Yes, okay, plates! Of course!” Cal climbed down from his large chair and hurried to the kitchen, still grinning.

  Vellien looked like they wanted to melt into the floor. They stared at their shoes, and Hasryan rolled their eyes. “Sorry about that. Forgot how much Cal loves the faintest hint of romance that doesn’t apply to him. He did that to Larryn and me early on, and stopping him required an intervention.” Hasryan moved past Vellien to set the large pot in the centre of the room, and Branwen’s stomach grumbled at the strong scent of rosemary. “Don’t be afraid to tell him if it gets too much. He loves playing the local aromantic matchmaker, but he won’t push boundaries.”

  A weak smile crossed Vellien’s face, and they shook their head. Before they could answer, Branwen threw an arm around their shoulders and ruffled their hair. “Don’t you think I’ll forget, or that I won’t tell Garith the moment we see him again!”

  And then they would tease Vellien to death and enjoy themselves more than they ever had since this whole trade war started. Branwen grinned at her cousin. Their calm and lack of denial betrayed them even more than their flushed cheeks, and now she wanted to meet this mysterious apprentice she had saved ten days ago. If anything serious came out of this crush, she would tell Vellien they owed her for the new boyfriend! Branwen stepped back, the terrible night forgotten for a moment, and she realized Diel waited right behind her for his turn. When she released her cousin, he moved forward and embraced them.

  “I’m glad you’re safe,” he said. “How are you feeling? Do you need to rest?”

  “Eventually. Hasryan told me about the Tower. Do we … how is everyone? Did they hurt Kellian and Jaeger?”

  “Yes, for Jaeger. Kellian …” Diel frowned. “We don’t know. He never joined Branwen for the expedition, but your uncle can defend himself. We’ll find out what happened.”

  Cal returned with plates, forks, and spoons, all balanced precariously in his short arms. Branwen and Arathiel hurried to help, and before long, they’d cleared a circle around the pot, with pillows as seats and a meal for everyone. Vellien passed their turn because they had already eaten, and after the first bite, Branwen was glad there would be more for the rest of them. The skipped dinner had left her ravenous, and instead of the consistent but dull food she’d expected, she discovered a perfectly-flavoured stew, with fresh carrots and the occasional beet to sweeten the deal. Her delighted exclamations brought laughter from everyone except Uncle Diel, who had engulfed half his plate already.

  To her surprise, Diel didn’t start planning a counterattack as they ate. He sat between Arathiel and Vellien, his gaze distant, his thoughts far away. Then his attention snapped back to the present, and his face lit with a smile. “Did I ever tell you about the time Aunt Camilla slapped my first boyfriend with her purse?”

  Branwen and Vellien groaned—of course he had, a hundred times over—but it was already too late. Hasryan’s startled laugh encouraged him, and Diel launched into the full tale of the jealous and abusive scum Camilla had chased away with her terrifying weapon. One anecdote led to another until Branwen and Vellien added to the family retellings. More than once, Arathiel slipped into the nearby bedroom to check on Varden, but he sat down and joined when they talked about her love of tea. Soon, even Hasryan had a story to share. He spoke slowly, as if uncertain he had any right to contribute, but his red eyes shone brightly, and the worry vanished from his expression. The change in his presence entranced Branwen, and she stared well past the end of the story. Only Cal didn’t talk, and he seemed more than happy for the opportunity to refill his plate, even though he often glanced at it and the huge pile of cheese with more than a hint of nostalgia. Branwen couldn’t blame him—she didn’t remember when she had last tasted something so delicious. She wished Varden could have tried it, and the thought doused her mood.

  “Vellien, do you still have the strength to call upon Alluma?” Her question interrupted the meal. “It’s Varden. He’s in the other room. Stable, but …”

  Vellien’s eyes widened, and they scrambled to their feet. “Of course! How did I forget? I mean, I knew that was tonight’s goal, and everyone is here, so—”

  “You were kidnapped. Don’t stress it,” Branwen said, well aware Vellien would anyway. “Whenever you can, though, he’ll need it. Avenazar dug deep enough to control him, and I worry about the damage done.”

  “He was himself enough to save me from the fire,” Arathiel said, “but she’s right. He’s bony and feverish. A healer of your calibre could make a huge difference.”

  “I’m off, then! I’ll do what I can.”

  They stood straight, almost saluting, and Cal snickered. “Watch it, my romantic friend. Nevian’s already affecting you.”

  Vellien started, spluttered, then turned red once more and scampered away and into the bedroom. Branwen and Hasryan laughed at their hurry. She shouldn’t poke so much fun at Vellien, but she knew they would be a good sport about it. And while her younger cousin had established that they were pansexual and their taste in people bypassed gender perception altogether, they had never brought anyone home, or even mentioned a potential crush. She teased Garith mercilessly, so why not Vellien? Family members learned to resist her constant assaults.

  By the time the door closed behind Vellien, Diel was wiping the gravy with his fingers. Cal gaped at him, as if he couldn’t handle a noble in his house, licking his plates, but her uncle acted like he didn’t notice. “So your friend Larryn cooked this? I’ve never tasted something so delicious. He should apply his skills there instead of in kidnapping teenagers.”

  “He knows,” Hasryan replied, “but Larryn forgets easily in the heat of things.”

  “He’s not a bad person.” Cal’s cheerful tone had vanished, replaced by a fighting spirit—ready to defend his friend. “He makes mistakes—huge ones, bigger than the city’s tallest towers!—but he dedicated his entire life to the
Shelter. That’s all he does, all the time! That great cuisine? On any other day, it’s for the taste buds of those who can’t afford a meal or a roof over their head. Once Larryn decides you’re part of his people, there’s no limit to what he’ll do to protect you.”

  “I noticed.” Bitterness still laced Diel’s tone, but he raised a hand before Cal or Hasryan could protest. “Calm down, I won’t hold it against him. Does his Shelter need funding?”

  Arathiel, Hasryan, and Cal snorted all at once, then exchanged long and amused looks. Why did they think the suggestion ridiculous? House Dathirii might not have the money anymore—nor Diel the control to give it—but they would find their footing soon enough.

  “Forget it,” Hasryan said. “He’d never accept your gold, or even another noble’s. He’ll manage on his own. He always has.”

  “A shame.”

  “It might be, but some lines should not be crossed.”

  “You mean lines like kidnapping?” Branwen asked. In the finality of Hasryan’s tone, she heard a story to unearth and a challenge. If she had the time, she would go digging into Larryn’s past to find out why he would refuse help from nobles, but with Lord Allastam and Avenazar still alive, she filed it for later. Perhaps Vellien would know.

  “Trust Larryn to cross the lines he shouldn’t,” Arathiel said, “but they’re right. The best approach is to leave him alone. Why provoke him when he accomplishes so much on his own?”

  Branwen huffed. “As long as he doesn’t kidnap my precious cousin again.”

  She picked up the empty plates, then rose and brought them to the kitchen. Cal kept a tiny step in front of the water pump to help himself, and two more were gathering dust in a corner. Perhaps those were meant to save him the trouble of moving the steps around all the time, but if so… he obviously didn’t use his counters much. Did he always eat out? She left the dishes there, slipping from the kitchens to Cal’s bedroom.