As if on cue, chimes rang, a shimmering glissando. The bells hung off the arms and torso of a man impaled on a stake, ringing with every tremor of his body.
Neven eyed the abomination with disgust. “Aren’t you burning magic keeping them alive?”
Nightshade shrugged. “I don’t expect you to understand. Sometimes art is for its own sake. And before you ask, their pain counts toward the Cull.”
“Someone’s killing my smugglers—I want it stopped,” Neven said, returning to the original conversation.
“I’m busy conjuring monsters to send Ravenwood scrambling,” Nightshade said dismissively. “I don’t have time or energy to waste on your petty thieves.”
“Have a care how you speak to me.”
Nightshade raised an eyebrow, then turned and looked up at the moaning wretch on the scarecrow’s cross and back at Neven, leveling a threat without saying a word.
“Our trade agreement comes due with Morletta in a month,” Neven said. “I’ve promised the Lord Mayor and our Merchant Princes that we’ll support them.”
“By ‘support’ you mean I’ll send monsters into Morletta as well as Ravenwood, and work up some poisons and curses so your men can intimidate their counterparts into giving them the terms you want?”
“That’s how this game is played,” Neven said.
“Even with my… indulgences,” Nightshade said with a gesture that took in the living “art” scattered throughout the garden and its fencing and decorations made from the bones of past victims, “I can’t shore up the Balance indefinitely. Blood magic has a cost, and what you require of me sorely taxes that.”
He moved to another garden bed and added foxglove and hemlock to his cuttings. “It’s one thing drawing the power necessary to summon monsters nearby, within Sarolinia. But opening Rifts over a distance—like in Ravenwood and Morletta—requires much more magic. I can sense the strain on the energy. The Rifts are growing unstable. If they become erratic and begin to open and close on their own—or worse, if the fabric between our world and what lies beyond the Veil ‘rips,’ we will all suffer the consequences.”
“Then make bloody sure that doesn’t happen.” Neven moved away from the moaning scarecrow, trying not to get closer to the shuddering man on the pike and his death bells. “Surely the Cull will compensate. I’ve never heard of Rifts opening by themselves.”
“You’re not the only one with a blood witch,” Nightshade replied. His calm voice seemed at odds with his conviction that a misstep could bring a cataclysm upon them. “And none of you have a care about the amount of blood magic being worked. I’ve researched the old manuscripts. There’s no precedent for this ongoing level of blood magic putting a strain on the Balance. If you’re not careful, there won’t be anyone left by the time the Cull is satisfied.”
“I’m not going to pull back now because of some old wives’ tales,” Neven countered.
Nightshade shrugged and bent to snip off a few more flowers. “Have you ever heard of He Who Watches?”
“Is this another story told to frighten children?”
A cold, mocking smile touched Nightshade’s lips. “Oh, I assure you, it’s no idle tale. The Rifts we open to summon monsters lead to a realm different from our own, perhaps the place of the Elder Gods.”
“Foolishness. The gods are nothing more than stories told to cow the gullible,” Neven snapped.
“Some say that He Who Watches is a creature of Colduraan’s, one of his Ancient Ones, a First Being. A practice creature, if you will, before the gods created animal and humans. Others say He Who Watches is Colduraan himself. Though I rather doubt that.” Nightshade looked at Neven with an unreadable expression. “I hear his song in my dreams.”
A few Death’s Angel mushrooms went into his basket, along with yew and monkshood. Neven did not care to know what Nightshade intended to do with the plants; all were deadly poison. He knew that some were used to bring about a “waking death,” locking the victims in their failing bodies while slowing their demise. Some of those unfortunates were posed like statuary around the garden, limbs contorted and frozen however Nightshade chose to “sculpt” them.
“Your dreams are your business,” Neven retorted. “Spare me the sordid details.”
“You also forget that some of my time—and magic—is spent repelling the attacks of my counterparts in Itara and Kasten—as well as Morletta—who would benefit should Sarolinia fail to increase its standing in the League.”
“With Ravenwood’s fulfillment of their agreement rocky, we’re well on our way to taking their place in the rankings,” Neven assured him. “And don’t think too highly of yourself—my spies and assassins have their own plans in the other city-states to keep the rivals at bay.”
“And so do your rivals,” Nightshade replied with an indifferent shrug. “Or have you forgotten the warnings and sigils I’ve placed in your palace to deter their attacks?”
“Of course I haven’t forgotten,” Neven growled. “Although I’d appreciate it if you could do something to get those vile Wanderers out of Sarolinia for good.”
“Anything I might do to the Wanderers will be a stopgap, at best. They’ve survived the curse of one Elder God by gaining the favor of another. If Ardevan himself couldn’t wipe them out, who am I to think I can exterminate Eshtamon’s favorites?”
“Lies and children’s tales, all of it! They’re wily thieves, with dirty magic, and they always seem to be present right before bad things happen.”
An ironic smile crossed Nightshade’s lips. “Perhaps that’s because the bad things happen to those who raise their hand against the Wanderers. Actions have consequences, and with so much in play, you’d be best served by leaving the Wanderers alone.”
“I’ll be the judge of what best serves my interests.” Neven did not fully dismiss Nightshade’s caution, but he’d be damned if he intended to let the blood witch rattle his nerves. “Keep your focus on Ravenwood. I don’t think it will take much to bring them to their knees, not with their trade agreements faltering.”
Twilight set the garden in a deep blue half-light. Nightshade waved his hand, and tall torches flared to light the pathways. Neven could not suppress a shudder when he realized that the “torches” were corpses dipped in wax.
“Of course, my lord,” Nightshade replied, as the shimmer of bells sent a chill down Neven’s spine. “I live to serve.”
Brice Tagar was waiting for Neven when he entered his study.
“News?” Neven snapped, annoyed at the surprise visit.
“Of sorts,” his spymaster replied. “I’ve made enquiries with my sources. No one’s heard anything officially—or unofficially—about credit being claimed for killing the smugglers. That supports your suspicion the hunters are to blame.”
“Of course they’re to blame! They brought down Machison, and now they’re trying to undermine me.”
“I doubt outlaw hunters have access to that kind of power—or information,” Tagar soothed. “Perhaps they happened to run into each other by accident.”
Neven snorted in disbelief. “That strains credulity.”
“Maybe not,” Tagar replied. “The bodies were found outside a cemetery overlooking the harbor. If the smugglers saw lanterns—”
“Do you believe me a fool?” Neven thundered. “There are no coincidences, only well-disguised conspiracies. Maybe the hunters being outlaws was simply an elaborate ruse by Aliyev. I’ve always suspected he despised Machison and Blackholt. They were never quite up to his standards. So he engineered some unconventional assassins, passed them off as hunters, and then spun the fiction of putting a price on their heads—and sent his chief buffoon of a disgraced head of security after them, ensuring they wouldn’t be caught.”
“I don’t quite follow—”
Neven slapped his hand on the table. “It’s obvious! Aliyev got rid of three failures and used them to give cover to his assassins for their real task—countering our efforts in Ravenwood.”
&n
bsp; Tagar hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “M’lord, I think you give Aliyev—and the hunters—too much credit. Machison and Blackholt were arrogant and dangerous. Half of the League sent assassins against them, all unsuccessfully.”
“That’s my point! The Lord Mayor and his pet blood witch ably defeated every assassin sent against them—professional killers—only to be destroyed by tradesmen-turned-hunters? It can’t be so.”
“Never underestimate what men can do when they are fighting for their survival,” Tagar warned. “I assume the assassins prized escaping with their lives. From the boldness of the attack that brought down Machison and Blackholt, I suspect the hunters expected to die achieving their goal—and may have been surprised to escape. Even so, several of them were killed.”
Neven waved his hand in dismissal. “Can’t have checkmate without sacrificing a few pawns.” He shook his head. “No, we’ve read this wrong. Those ‘hunters’ are shadowing our smugglers, perhaps even aware of our pirates. Probably reporting every move back to Aliyev. They’ve got at least two witches of their own—powerful enough to destroy Blackholt. They’re a threat. I want them eliminated.”
“My men are searching the countryside for them as we speak,” Tagar assured him. “As are Aliyev’s guards and Jorgeson’s men.”
“Pfft. Aliyev is making a pretense, and Jorgeson is incompetent.”
“Perhaps,” Tagar allowed. “But we are hampered by both distance and the need for our agents to remain hidden. They dare not operate openly without drawing notice, which would lead Aliyev directly back to you.”
“Aliyev is too busy trying to salvage his precious agreement with Garenoth to notice.”
Tagar shook his head. “Don’t be so sure, my lord. Neither Aliyev nor King Rellan is as indifferent as they like to appear. Our spies report that Rellan has a keen eye for ledgers, and tracks the revenue of each city-state meticulously when his advisors report to him. Aliyev is shrewd. He may be focusing his attention on repairing the damage in Ravenwood, but I doubt very much he has lost sight of the larger goal.”
Neven paced. “Kadar is finally on board with us, enthusiastic about using the smugglers to undercut the rest of the League and pad his pockets. If word reaches him about the murders—”
“Smuggling is a risky business,” Tagar replied. “Bad things happen to bad men. I sincerely doubt Merchant Prince Kadar worries about the personal safety of the smugglers, only about the results to be gained. If he gets those results, he’ll be happy—even if it requires a mound of bodies.”
Neven warred with himself, torn between his fears and Tagar’s reassurances. Nightshade’s smug comments did nothing to assuage his concerns. “Need I remind you of the stakes? Sarolinia has always been one of the most unappreciated of the city-states. With Kasten partitioned, we are now among the least powerful of the League partners. We must rise. This is our chance, with Ravenwood in chaos and Garenoth open to advances for the first time in a decade. We can’t allow anything to take our eyes off the prize.”
All his life, Neven chafed at Sarolinia’s poor showing in the League rankings. While Garenoth and Ravenwood took the accolades, the rest of the city-states fought each other for the leavings, and those not blessed with either exceptional resources or the luck to have forebears who were canny and ruthless enough to carve out a legacy got left behind. No more, he vowed. I intend to see Sarolinia rise, usher in a golden age, prove those of us right who dared believe that there was more to us than has been acknowledged. This is our time, our chance, and I will be damned if I let some upstart hunters compromise our best hope for ascendancy.
“I’d appreciate a warning, that’s all.” Ambassador Lorenz cradled his injured arm in a sling, with a bulky bandage covering the knife wound left by an assassin. “I understand the risk of being your proxy—it comes with the job. But at least when I know you’re about to make someone angry, I can keep my guards closer at hand.”
“These days, it’s almost impossible to do anything without annoying someone,” Neven said. “We haven’t begun the new trade negotiations with Morletta. Itara would probably love to undercut those, as would Kasten. I fear you may always need your guards close by. These are dangerous times.”
“That appears to be true, more’s the pity. I understand Morletta is also up to renegotiate its terms with Ostero, so their ambassador will be stressed and distracted. I plan to use that to our benefit,” Lorenz added and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Itara might have designs on undercutting our agreement with Morletta, but it needs to see to its own house. The Arlan ambassador told me his Crown Prince is eager to reduce Morletta’s trade with them in favor of Torquonia. After all, their exports are similar, and for the past two seasons, Torquonia’s quality has been better.”
“Interesting.”
“I’d consider it to be gossip, even with the Arlan ambassador’s comment, but there’s been a proxy strike against the Torquonian ambassador to Arlan. I read that as Morletta sending a warning that they won’t take a reduction in their terms quietly.”
Politics in the Bakaran League was a deadly game of chess. The king, nobility, Crown Princes and Merchant Princes were rarely the victims of direct attacks unless the stakes were unusually high. Instead, assassins sent “messages” in strikes against the proxies of those powerful men, varying in their severity depending on the urgency of the issue. Those determined to advance their status accepted the risk as a necessary evil.
“What do you hear of the League Council?” Neven asked.
Lorenz leaned back in his chair and sipped his whiskey. “You understand, my lord, that anything I hear about the Council is second-hand at best. I have no dealings with them directly.”
“People talk.”
Lorenz chuckled. “Oh, yes they do. Much of the gossip seems to be centered on the repercussions of the Ravenwood situation. Speculation on what King Rellan thinks of Crown Prince Aliyev and to what degree he holds Aliyev responsible. Guesses about whether Aliyev will be able to meet the terms of agreement given the chaos—bets are against him—and keep his position. The odds are even on that.”
The ambassador paused to think. “There’s the usual personal tidbits—whose wife might be sleeping with someone else, who may have fathered a bastard, who’s gambling far too much and likely to squander his fortune.”
“What do you hear from the other city-states about hunters, monsters, and Wanderers?”
Lorenz gave him a look as if he were trying to guess Neven’s reasons for asking. “Not much,” he replied. “Those are everyone’s dirty little secrets. We’ve all got to deal with them, but it’s like lice or the clap—no one wants to admit to having them.” He paused. “After what happened in Kasten, everyone is cautious. I personally doubt the hunters could have caused that much chaos, to make the city-state to teeter on the brink of defaulting on its agreements. Seems like an easy way to pass the blame. But everyone’s wary, and I think they’ve cracked down more on the hunters—or at least they claim to.”
“And the rest?”
“Monsters are always with us. It does seem as if they’ve been a bigger problem lately in Morletta and Itara, though that might be exaggerated in the reporting. As for the Wanderers—they also never go away. Always causing problems, can’t seem to get rid of them. Like rats, only harder to poison.”
Neven nodded. “Anything else?”
“One thing that everyone’s complained about… the Guilds… that they’re getting above themselves, demanding too much, trying to meddle in negotiations when agreements come due. The Merchant Princes in Ravenwood seem to be having the most problems, but they’re not the only ones. No good can come of it.”
Neven agreed wholeheartedly, though he could never say so publicly. Given the way the city-states organized, the Guilds posed a threat to the Merchant Princes should they ever stop their infighting and stand together. Without the Guilds’ members, the Merchant Princes would have no goods to fulfill their trade obligations. Historically, bo
th the Merchant Princes and the Crown Princes subtly encouraged ill will among the Guilds to keep them mistrustful of each other. But if circumstances were dire enough, Neven could imagine the Guilds finally overcoming their old grudges and working together—which would be very bad news indeed.
“Keep me informed,” he said as he finished his whiskey and stood, indicating that the meal was at an end. “I look forward to your next briefing.”
“Let’s hope, my lord, that I am in better shape to make my report,” Lorenz replied, glancing at the sling that held his injured arm. “It would be… inconvenient… for you to have to find a new ambassador at this late date.”
Chapter Seventeen
“How long do you think we’ve been gone?” Rigan asked, staring at the cloudy sky that never grew fully light or completely dark. Without being able to see the sun or moon, it was difficult to judge the passage of time—assuming that it passed here in the same way as outside, beyond the Rift.
“Couple of days, maybe three or four,” Trent said. “Just a guess, but that’s what it feels like.”
Mir nodded. “I can’t see myself, but from the stubble you two have grown, that would be my guess.”
Rigan groaned. “Corran is going to be a wreck. And Elinor—”
Trent laid a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. If the monsters can get out, so can we.”
“Except that when a Rift opens, it must take the monsters closest to it. We haven’t seen any of them migrating, and whenever I’ve sensed a ripple in the energies, it’s gone before we can find an actual Rift.” Rigan let out a sigh and dropped down to sit on a log. “We don’t even know how big this—wherever we are—is.”
“Which is why you’re going to figure out how to open a Rift from this side,” Mir said. “You can do this, Rigan.”
Since they had been pulled into the Rift, they had held their own against more monsters than Rigan had dreamed existed. He had seen firsthand evidence that many of the creatures Corran and the hunters fought back in the city had their origins here, in a strange realm he suspected to be more a place of magic than of stone and substance.
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