Shadows of Ivory

by T L Greylock

  “I did not expect you to,” Eska began, then trailed off. She smiled a little. “I did not expect you, I suppose is what I mean.”

  “I was closest,” he said.

  “And I believe any member of my crew whose tent was closest would have acted as you did. But I would not have believed that a man who was very nearly a stranger a matter of days ago, indeed, a man who might have cause to despise my family, would have acted as you did.”

  Perrin gave a shrug, the dismissive kind that showed his discomfort. His gaze dropped from Eska and shifted to a knife on the table, the knife he had been prepared to use in her defense. “I am not unfamiliar with men who use knives in the dark,” he said. Eska waited. Perrin emptied his wine glass and sank back onto his cot. He dropped his head into his hands, his fingers spidering through his hair—as, Eska was suddenly sure, he had done throughout the night. At last he looked up at her. “I learned from my brother. Victor was a good teacher and I a better student than either of us expected. When I understood this, I tried to hide my growing skill from him, but it was too late. I had become a tool, and Victor excelled at using people as tools.” For a moment Perrin looked as though he might say more, but then he offered a smile instead of the story that lurked behind his face. The smile washed away the worry and wear Eska had seen on his features. He looked young again, and carefree. “At least my skill was used for good last night. I am glad I was able to protect you.”

  Eska went to the side of the cot and sank down to her knees so she could look him fully in the eyes. “I have an enemy, Perrin. A vicious enemy whose anger will not fade with time. But time is what I need, time to ensure I can expose him and have him sent to the Hibarium for the rest of his life. I am afraid, for my life, yes, but also that I might not live long enough to see this done.” Eska placed a hand on his knee. “Teach me, Perrin. Teach me how to survive knives in the dark.”

  Interlude 7

  Excerpt from Corin and Bravi’s Genuine & Noble Bulletin

  DIVINE CANERO SHINES AGAIN! TRAGEDY AT THE RACES!

  It comes as no Surprise that our beloved Archduke, whose Stables are second to None in all the Seven Cities, received yet another grass Crown—his Fifth in the same number of Years—in the winner’s Garden after the Champion’s Race. His stallion, the Temperamental and Superb Canero, raced as though he had Wings instead of hooves, effortlessly showing his Superior breeding and training. He Soared to an easy Victory, doing Honor to his Namesake, the Celestial Knight Salvatore de Canero, who Slew the last Alescu Tyrant. The rest of the Field ought to be Ashamed for even being in Canero’s Presence, though the Archduke was Gracious in his Praise of these inferior Nags.

  After the Race, the Horse belonging to Thibault de Venescu, which came in third place, was involved in a terrible Accident, causing both beast and rider to Die. This Bulletin has been told the horse, suddenly Crazed, bolted and Threw the rider, who had the Misfortune of being Caught by the stirrup and Dragged for some distance. We apologize to our Dear Readers for the Violence we must describe—but we have Vowed to always report the Truth and so we Must: the Rider was found with his Skull caved in and the Horse broke Two legs after becoming tangled in Unspecified material. The Horse was relieved of its Misery, some say by the Iron Baron himself. We give our humble Condolences to the Virtuous and Most Courteous Owner, who is a Patron of this very Bulletin.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “People with power rely on bribes and threats and call it justice.”

  “This is not the way to Arconia.”

  Manon Barca was no sailor, but she had been on enough sea voyages to know a thing or two about headings. Besides, the coast had been shrinking away behind them—slowly, so slowly Manon had watched the sun cross a quarter of the sky before she was certain. The ship, a great three-masted vessel from the Archduke’s fleet, was headed west, yes, toward Arconia, but on a course that was angling them, bit by bit, away from land.

  Her statement fell on no ears, for she was alone at the rail. Not quite a prisoner, not quite free to roam the ship at will, she had been allowed on deck after they cleared the Toridium harbor. No bonds restricted her movement and below deck she had been given a small, clean cabin. But the soldier who mirrored her movements as though a tether connected him to her made Manon’s circumstances clear enough. The soldier was quiet, unobtrusive even, and his hand never strayed anywhere near his sword, but he also never took his gaze from her, never yawned or lost focus. Indeed, every man and woman aboard that ship was a model of precision, both in conduct and appearance. Manon had never seen the like.

  She attributed it to the identity of the man commanding the ship, though whether everyone, from first officers to cabin boys, acted as they did out of fear or loyalty or something else entirely, Manon did not know. What she did know was the name of that man, the name that had escaped her in the Vismarch’s courtyard.

  Arch-Commander de Minos had not spoken a word directly to her. She had been put aboard the Arconian ship the day before, directly after the incident in the courtyard, left to float in the Toridium harbor, to wonder if she would ever see her brother again. She had done what she could, of course, to save him, to be certain all blame for her attempt on the de Caraval ship fell on her. She did not know if it had been enough.

  The ship, a behemoth called Horatio, had come to life early that morning. Manon, in her cabin, could hear but not see the activity and had assumed that she would experience whatever voyage the Horatio was about to undertake from within her cabin. To her surprise, not long after the ship was underway, a young officer had rapped smartly on her door—a polite gesture only, the door was locked from the outside—and then entered and informed her she was at liberty to go above deck. Manon had accepted—more eagerly than she would like to admit. Closed, windowless chambers, however comfortable, had always made her uneasy and the fresh sea air that whipped through her hair the moment she emerged on deck had brought immense relief. The young officer—irritatingly polite—had glanced away, her own hair cut short in a practical manner that defied the wind, allowing Manon the idea of privacy as she let out a deep exhale and closed her eyes for a moment. The officer then told her she could walk where she wished, introduced her to her new shadow—Jourdain, was it?—and then disappeared below deck once more.

  And so Manon stood at the rail, Jourdain a very precise distance behind her, watching the waves, watching the sun, watching the gulls, watching porpoises dart around the ship—watching and wondering where the Horatio was headed.

  “Parnaxes, if you’d like to know.”

  Manon stiffened at the voice behind her. The tone of that voice could be mistaken as nonchalant, conversational, friendly even, but the experience in the courtyard with Perrin had quickly taught Manon that the Arch-Commander of Arconia was not likely to make meaningless, pleasant conversation with her.

  She released the rail, which she realized she’d been gripping far too firmly, and allowed herself to turn to face him. “Why?” She hoped her tone matched his as her mind sought to explain why they were going to one of Arconia’s sister cities.

  Alexandre de Minos watched her for a long moment, watched as the wind continued to swirl Manon’s hair about her, watched as though he was waiting for her heart rate to increase under that stare. He was exceptionally good at watching, she realized, his face betraying nothing. He exuded, if such a thing was possible, the combined sum of all the precision, manners, efficiency, and order that Manon witnessed aboard the Horatio. And something more. The predator Manon saw in his gaze in the Vismarch’s courtyard lurked just below the surface, shifting, stretching, like sunlight on water.

  “Orders,” he answered. From the Archduke, then. This man took orders from only one person. “It’ll be a short visit, no more than a day. We’ll be in Arconia in seven days.”

  “And then? Is it the Hibarium for me? I’m sure Eska de Caraval would like to see me rot alongside my father.” Manon did not bother to—could not have if she tried—mask the venom the name of d
e Caraval spawned within her.

  The Arch-Commander was unperturbed. “Then you don’t know Eska de Caraval very well. She puts her trust in the law courts of Arconia. She’d want you to be tried fairly.”

  “Fairly.” Manon spat out the word. “Her father is the Vice-Chancelier of Arconia and her mother is Ambassador-Superior. They have the ear of the Archduke. People with power rely on bribes and threats and call it justice.”

  “If that’s your opinion, then perhaps you’ll be glad to know there won’t be any trial.” He tossed that statement at her as casually as a butcher tosses a bone to a dog.

  Manon felt fear grip her insides and wondered if her face showed it. She tried to draw herself up, tried to square her shoulders. “Are you trying to frighten me, Arch-Commander? Do you think to make me beg for my life and my freedom? Perhaps you like the sight of a woman on her knees in front of you, wholly at your mercy.”

  The Arch-Commander’s lip curled in disdain at Manon’s suggestion. “There won’t be a trial because you are under the Archduke’s protection.”

  It took a moment for the words to sink in. “Protection. What for? What does he want with me?”

  “I’ll let him be the one to tell you.” The Arch-Commander turned to go, then paused. “A word of advice, Manon Barca. You are not a prisoner now, but if you refuse the Archduke, you will be.”

  Manon scoffed and pointed at her shadow. “Not a prisoner?”

  Alexandre de Minos shrugged, the gesture infuriatingly dispassionate. “Think what you like. But I suggest you find a way to keep that temper of yours in check by the time we return to Arconia.”

  Manon watched him walk the length of the ship, flanked by a pair of officers, to join the helmsman at the wheel. His words chilled her and she brushed angrily at the hair in her face as though she could brush away the effect he had on her. But it was what he had not said that gave her pause as she leaned over the rail once more. Not to her, no, but what he chose to say and what not to say to the Vismarch and Eska de Caraval, who were undoubtedly under the assumption Manon was a prisoner returning to Arconia to face justice. Alexandre de Minos, Arch-Commander of Arconia, had lied.

  Interlude 8

  Customs Form

  #8757-90

  Company Name: Barca Company

  Ship: Evina

  Captain: Roland Realmuto

  Port of Origin: Arconia

  Ports Visited: Parnaxes, Covinus, Alsara

  Contents of Hold: Items from the Temple of Sunnil, Alsara

  Five (5) jade figurines

  Seventy (70) silver vases

  Sixteen (16) stone statues, various poses

  One (1) iron horse, headless

  Twenty-nine (29) gold-filigree crowns*

  *I am instructed to note that the thirtieth crown was left behind to appease the despot who has recently taken power in Covinus. – G.B., clerk, harbor office

  Addendum:

  Barca Company has filed for financial compensation from the Treasury of Arconia due to the loss of the thirtieth crown as well as for time lost and damages, physical and otherwise, sustained by five members of the crew during the uprising in Covinus. Hearing pending. – A.T., clerk, Varadome, Treasury Division

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I imagine that will put an end to our negotiations.”

  The summons didn’t come from the city until the sun nearly reached its zenith. Eska was loath to answer it.

  She and Perrin had worked from dawn until the morning meal, then again until she had a rough understanding of the grip Perrin suggested she adopt, as well as stance, the balance of the knife in her hand, and the footwork that might keep her alive. Eska began their practice with one of the knives she carried among her tools, tucked away in the chest, but Perrin insisted she use his, a piece meant for deadlier pursuits than opening letters. He showed her how the blade was balanced for his hand, and told her she should have one—or better yet, a pair—made to her specifications.

  “I can recommend a good bladesmith in Arconia,” he had said as they paused for a drink of water. “But I am not familiar with Toridium. Perhaps I can inquire on your behalf.” Eska had agreed to this and rebuffed his suggestion that they had done enough for one day. More than a few pairs of eyes had lingered on them over the course of the morning, though Cedric was quick to direct the crew back to their tasks. For Eska’s part, she had expected to be distracted by the bones she knew the dig master was unearthing. But she found the sharpness of the blade in her hand and the memory of the man springing from the darkness were enough to keep her undivided attention on her new teacher. Albus would have been surprised.

  The summons alone was enough to break her concentration. She was sweaty and far from presentable, and the water she splashed across her face and neck as the messenger retreated back to the city did little to help the matter. Brushing water from her face, Eska thanked Perrin, who offered a tight smile, then took a moment to check on Cedric’s progress.

  The dig master had succeeded in assembling the skeleton nearly to completion. Eska surveyed the work and listened as he dictated notes to Bastien about the soil in which the skeleton had been found, the depths to which they needed to dig, as well as the distances between various bones and how they were situated in the ground relative to each other. Her mind, as though working to make up for her absence, raced through the information, but she refused to contemplate any theories—not yet. She had learned long ago to shut off that part of her mind during such a task, focusing instead on recording the relevant data so that she might later bring the full weight of her mind and the information gleaned to theorizing. Still, the question Cedric had posed upon the initial discovery—what it was doing in a refuse pit—nagged at her.

  Her wrist nagged her, too, though she did not want to admit it. More than nagged, really, the injury rearing its head in the wake of the attack. Though she would rather remain at the dig site, Eska knew an afternoon at the negotiation table rather than in the dirt would be beneficial.

  After leaving Cedric with further instructions and the letters to her father and Pierro Gustini, Eska made the short journey back to Toridium and cleaned herself up as best she could. She was traversing the way between her suite and the negotiation chamber and lamenting the fact that she did not have time to find a meal, when loud voices approaching from the other direction hurried her steps. She rounded the corner to find an ashen-faced Chancellor Pelle, attended by a flock of officials, striding toward her, robes billowing in his haste.

  “Lady de Caraval,” he began, voice hoarse with emotion.

  “Chancellor, what is the matter?” It was the Ambassador-Superior, coming up behind Eska, her own entourage at her heels.

  The man clutched his hands. “Chancellor Fiorlieu, he’s dead.”

  “Not just dead.” The new arrival at the far end of the corridor spoke loudly, authority clear in both her voice and the way the armed men followed her. Her face had none of Chancellor Pelle’s grief or distress. Eska felt more than saw her mother tense at her side. The Ambassador-Superior took half a step forward, placing herself and her own authority in full view. The newcomer, a tall blonde woman in a red cloak, came to a halt fifteen paces away, the men spreading their ranks to fill the corridor. “Poisoned.”

  “Poisoned!” Chancellor Pelle’s voice caught in his throat and his hands fluttered to his mouth.

  “Poisoned?” Sorina de Caraval repeated the word, the picture of dignity, of calm. Only Eska saw the pulse in her neck. Only Eska knew the Ambassador-Superior was as taut as a bowstring. “Is it certain?”

  “Unmistakably.” The blonde woman’s gaze shifted to Eska. “Eska de Caraval, I am here to place you under arrest for the murder of Chancellor Fiorlieu.”

  “Murder?” Eska wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, but some instinct that valued survival told her not to. It also told her that countering this accusation with a story about knives in the dark and the Iron Baron, however true, would not be to her benefit in that moment�
��or her mother’s benefit. The attempt on her life would have to remain a secret. The irony, however, that the Chancellor might have been murdered mere hours after her own narrow escape was not lost on her. “I merely suggested a remedy for the Chancellor’s ailment,” she said.

  “Eska,” Sorina muttered, “quiet.”

  “Eldergrass and finallian root are not a recipe for murder,” Eska went on. “The idea is preposterous.”

  The blonde woman’s eyes gleamed. “You admit you have knowledge of this.”

  Eska opened her mouth to protest but Sorina urged silence a second time and she had the sense to obey. The Ambassador-Superior stepped directly in the line of sight between the woman and Eska.

  “Commander, I invoke my diplomatic rights to speak with this citizen of Arconia in private.”

  The commander smirked. “Granted, but unnecessary. I have orders to confine Lady de Caraval to her chambers for the time being.”

  “And I may enter freely?”

  “You may, though your time will be limited.”

  Sorina gave a curt nod. “Agreed.”

  The commander marched around Sorina and grabbed Eska’s upper arm in a cruel grip. As she was propelled back down the corridor, Eska, her heart beating in her throat, fought the urge to try to shake free of the woman, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of knowing the pain she inflicted. When they reached Eska’s suite, the woman made a cursory inspection of the outer chamber, as though looking for a vial of poison left out in the open, and then, upon admitting Sorina, locked them inside.

  Sorina, shaken but not beyond anger, stared hard at her daughter. “What did you do?”