“Why?” Corran asked, though he felt certain he did not want to know.
Brock met his gaze. “To summon the servant of the god.”
It took Rigan a moment to find his voice. “You don’t think—”
Mina nodded. “Yes. I do.”
“But that’s madness,” Aiden gasped. “Why would anyone dream of doing such a thing?”
“They mean to call for Colduraan?” Corran asked.
Brock shook his head. “No. They intend to bring He Who Watches through a Rift into this realm.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“The reports have not been good.” Guild Master Stanton watched Kadar warily as the Merchant Prince looked over the ledgers provided to him.
“What’s the problem?” Kadar snapped, still frustrated over the loss of five guards without bringing the hunters to heel. “The weather has been fine, seas calm. There’s no plague, no drought. But these numbers—”
“The city still hasn’t got its feet back under it since the fires—and the death of the Lord Mayor, my lord,” Stanton replied. “And without a steady hand at the helm—no slight meant to Crown Prince Aliyev, he’s doing his best, I’m sure—but panic has set in. We’ve even heard of some Guild Members seeking passage on ships to other city-states.”
“So stop them!”
Stanton clasped his hands in front of him. “It’s not so easy, my lord. The Davona Accords allow Guild Members to move among the sister city-states in certain situations. War and unrest, in particular.”
“Then suspend the Accords!” Kadar snapped, throwing his hands up. “Must I tell you everything?”
“The Crown Prince would have to be the one to do that,” Stanton reminded him. “It’s far beyond the control of the Guilds.”
Kadar slammed the ledger closed and glared at Stanton. “I don’t give a damn about the Guilds that get their trade from Gorog or Tamas. But the coopers and carpenters should have no excuse for not meeting their obligations. The harvest in the vineyards has been exceptional this year.”
“When the city burned, we lost many shops and homes,” Stanton answered. “Many of our members lost their workshops to the flames, along with their tools. Several of the blacksmiths’ forges were damaged or destroyed—which affects the supply of nails and barrel hoops for the coopers.”
“I expect the Guilds to deal with the minutia,” Kadar snapped.
“My lord, we cannot make something out of nothing!” Stanton looked drawn and tired, like a man pushed past endurance. “We support you—”
“Damnable way you have of showing it!”
“We cannot bend reality to our will.”
They stared at each other in silence for a moment as both men harnessed their tempers. “What will it take to set things right?” Kadar finally asked. The strain in his voice made his anger clear, but he needed Stanton, and taking his ire out on the other man would accomplish nothing.
“More time than we have,” Stanton admitted. “Aliyev has all the men who were put out of work by the fires busy with the rebuilding, and it’s happening as fast as something like that can, I suppose, but it’s not enough. Not when tradesmen have deadlines to meet.”
“Can Aliyev ask for extensions?” Kadar knew he was casting about for possibilities. “It’s not unheard of. Storms, bad seas, plagues of locusts—there are many reasons outside of our control why deliveries might be late.”
“Those are acts of the gods,” Stanton replied. “But the fire that took out a third of Ravenwood was an act of men—first the Lord Mayor’s guards, and then the hunters when they went to kill the Lord Mayor and his witch. I’m afraid that granting us leniency under the circumstances might be seen by some in the nobility as turning a blind eye toward acts of treason.”
Kadar rose from his desk and paced. “Treason? That’s putting too much stock in it. Those hunters were nothing but ruffians. Machison and Blackholt went too far. They got caught up in the game and forgot what really mattered. And Jorgeson—a buffoon. Look at him—months in exile, and he still can’t bring those outlaws to heel to save his neck.” Kadar shook his head. “No, not treason—incompetence. Malice. Surely the League—”
“My lord, that’s what I’ve come to tell you,” Stanton pressed. “Aliyev has already petitioned the League on our behalf—and been denied.”
Kadar paled and put out a hand to steady himself against the desk. “Surely not!”
Stanton nodded. “I fear so, my lord. The Guild Masters have been in meetings day and night, trying to save Ravenwood. It looks likely that we will default on our obligation to Garenoth—and if we do, it will be within their rights to void the treaty and choose another favored partner.”
Kadar brought his fist down on the desk. “And who would that be? I’ll tell you—Sarolinia! This… it must be a plot. They’ve always been jealous of our standing in the League, our ranking, our favored status with Garenoth. They’re an ambitious lot, trying to scrabble up from the bottom of the barrel.”
“Perhaps,” Stanton allowed. “On top of everything that’s happened in Ravenwood, the Guild Masters are concerned because smugglers have been undercutting the price of the goods brought in for sale from Garenoth. If people buy the smuggled goods, then none of that profit returns to Garenoth, and our deficit grows larger.”
For a moment, Kadar could not find his voice. I never intended the smugglers to do more than line my pockets with some extra gold, make up for all the tariffs and fees to be paid to that tiresome exchequer. I didn’t think it would matter. Didn’t think anyone would notice. Surely those little boats couldn’t have brought in enough goods to truly do damage?
“Has Aliyev gotten to the heart of the smuggling ring yet?’ Kadar asked, hoping he did not look as fearful as he felt.
“He’s looking into it,” Stanton replied. “Though everything points to Sarolinia being behind it. Aliyev told us the last we met with him that Sarolinian Crown Prince Neven was underwriting the smugglers—providing them with ships and capital.”
Kadar’s stomach lurched. “The Sarolinians?” he managed in a strangled voice. “Behind the smugglers?”
Stanton nodded. “I’m afraid so, my lord. It appears that Neven decided to act on his dislike of Ravenwood and destroy our standing, in order to elevate Sarolinia. Aliyev fears he may also be behind the additional monster attacks near the border.”
Stanton was one of the relatively few who knew the truth of the monsters and their masters. “My vineyards are not far from the border,” Kadar managed, his mouth suddenly dry.
“Then I would suggest extra patrols, my lord,” Stanton said. “From what word we’ve received from the rural areas, it’s grim out there.”
Stanton took his leave, and as soon as he was out of sight, Kadar collapsed into the chair behind his desk. How did this go so far awry? The smuggling was supposed to be a bit of extra coin—nothing anyone would notice, a way to cheat the tax man and come away with a score at the end of the month. Could I have been played for a fool by Sarolinia?
In his heart, he knew the truth. The furtive meetings, the too convenient connections—he had thought them fortuitous before; now, he realized they had all been cleverly arranged, and him none the wiser.
“I’ve been a pawn,” he said quietly. “A fool. And now—what can I salvage? The harvest in the fields is the best in five years. Surely that’s worth something. I’ll go to Aliyev, tell him of the harvest, offer it as a way to make amends to Garenoth. They’re partial to our grapes. Perhaps there’s still a way to fix this.”
He sent a runner to fetch Wraithwind. The blood witch arrived a candlemark later, much longer than it should have taken to walk from his workshop. The witch carried himself like he was prepared for bad news, being summoned to appear in his master’s chamber instead of Kadar coming to him in his workshop.
“You called for me?” Wraithwind asked, and he pulled himself up to his full height, which might have been intimidating if his bulk had been proportionate. He had pu
shed his long gray hair behind his ears, and his spectacles balanced precariously on his long nose.
“What do you know of the rural lands?” Kadar demanded. “Is Sarolinia calling monsters to harm my vineyards?”
Wraithwind raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t know. That’s not really my concern. You had me sending monsters against rival Guilds to the detriment of your fellow Merchant Princes. I have done as you ordered.”
“A change of plans,” Kadar announced. “Cut back on the monsters, in the city and the countryside, for now. Unless you can summon them across the border in Sarolinia.”
“There’s a limit to how much I can ‘cut back’ without affecting the Balance,” Wraithwind warned him. “And the amount I can reduce is hardly likely to make a difference, whatever your intent.”
“Do it,” Kadar growled. “Or I shall withdraw privileges from your partner.” He leaned back. “Micella has been very comfortable. It’s up to you whether that continues.”
Wraithwind blanched. “That’s not necessary, my lord,” he replied. “I’ll do as you ask.” He wetted his lips nervously before going on.
“As for conjuring monsters in Sarolinia—I had been intending to come see you this very afternoon,” Wraithwind said. “I have it on good authority there’s a relic at an old temple in the farmland. Very powerful, very dangerous. Can’t send just anyone after it. Would be quite an asset if we can collect it. So I thought to go myself.”
“You loathe the countryside.”
“Yes,” Wraithwind replied. “But I’m willing to make an exception when the need is great.”
“And what will I do in your absence?” Kadar demanded.
“One of my lesser witches will serve you. It shouldn’t be a problem since you’ve asked that I reduce the conjuring,” he pointed out. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
A prickle down his spine warned Kadar that nothing about the blood witch was as it seemed. Still, the request appeared innocuous enough, and if they intended to reduce the monsters summoned and sent against enemies—for the time being—he could think of no reason to forbid the trip.
Part of him feared testing his authority against the blood witch, fairly certain that “forbidding” the journey would not be heeded, forcing their struggle into the open.
“Very well,” he said tiredly. “Go. But I expect this relic of yours will create a substantial advantage for me?”
Wraithwind’s smile was difficult to decipher. “Oh yes,” he assured. “It will change everything.”
“Micella remains here,” Kadar specified and saw fire glint in the witch’s eyes. “Where she’ll be safer.”
Wraithwind stiffened, although his expression remained unreadable. Kadar knew the witch disliked leaving his partner as a hostage. Which made her all the more valuable. “As you wish, my lord.”
By the time Joth Hanson arrived, Kadar’s mood, already stormy, had turned black.
“Did you know?” He turned on Hanson as soon as the door closed behind him. Hanson took a step back, eyes wide.
“Know what, my lord?”
“Know what the smuggling was doing to the trade with Garenoth?”
Hanson raised his hands as if to surrender. “We knew that the smuggled goods would evade the tariffs and therefore sell at a higher profit,” he said carefully. “That was the benefit of employing the smugglers.”
“I’ve heard from Stanton,” Kadar snapped. “The trade agreement with Garenoth is in danger. Just how much smuggling did you have going on?”
“Several boats a week, sometimes twice a week,” Hanson replied. “Whatever we could slip past the harbor guards. The cargo varied, and the inland merchants were happy to buy the goods at a discount.”
“The smuggling was never meant to destroy the trade agreement, merely skim a little off the top,” Kadar raged. “What we make from the smuggling is a pittance compared to what I earn from the normal trade. It was meant to be an addition—not a replacement!”
“Guild Master Stanton no doubt has his own agenda for passing along the information,” Hanson said. “Perhaps it suits his ends to alarm you. Certainly that would be true when it comes to any smuggled goods that affect the products of his Guild.”
“I don’t doubt that Stanton has an agenda,” he snarled. “The Guild Masters always have a hidden plan. But I didn’t think to ask before now what yours was.”
“My lord?” Hanson stammered, backing up a step as Kadar advanced.
“You’re the one who proposed the smuggling, the one who found the contacts, the one who brokered the deals,” Kadar said, moving one step at a time and forcing Hanson back across the room.
“You made a comment about how you wished you could buy goods without having to pay the fees and tariffs,” Hanson said, words tumbling over each other as he rushed to speak. “I took that to heart, found a way to make it happen—”
“I should have asked how you found the smugglers so quickly,” Kadar said, fixing Hanson with a glare. “Should have wondered how a man like you has ‘contacts’ among that sort.”
He had Hanson up against the wall, and the man’s eyes were wide with fear. “I can explain—”
“Who’s been paying you?” Kadar asked, bringing his knife up with the tip beneath Hanson’s chin. “Was it Tamas? Gorog’s son doesn’t have the stones for something like this. Though I would have doubted Tamas had the brains.” He jabbed the knife into the tender skin, raising a bead of blood.
“Was it Aliyev? Did he mean it for a test that I’ve failed?” Kadar watched Hanson flinch with every question, but something about his expression sent a chill creeping through the Merchant Prince as the pieces fell into place.
“Was it Sarolinia?” he breathed, barely a whisper. Hanson looked away, and Kadar felt his anger surge. “Answer me! Was it Sarolinia?”
Hanson met his gaze, and Kadar saw loathing in the man’s eyes. “Yes,” Hanson said, making no attempt to cover the contempt in his voice, knowing it was far too late to make amends. “The Crown Prince’s people approached me not long after I took this position. They had found out about my debts. I… owed people. Dangerous people.” He licked his lips nervously. “Gambling and… bad decisions. They offered to pay off my debts, in exchange for me making suggestions to you.”
“Like the smuggling,” Kadar said in a tight voice, his knife hand shaking with fury.
“Yes. That, and other things.”
“And did you carry tales of our conversations back to your masters? Was that also part of your deal?” Kadar stood toe-to-toe with Hanson, crushing him up against the wall, digging the tip of the knife into his throat.
“Yes,” Hanson replied. “I told them everything. They paid far better than you did.”
“Then consider this the final payment,” Kadar growled. He pulled back just far enough to plunge the knife into Hanson’s chest, holding him against the wall on the blade as the man jerked and gasped. He withdrew his knife, and let the body slump to the floor.
Blood pooled at Kadar’s feet, and his clothing stuck to his skin, warm and sticky. “Take that message back to your real masters,” Kadar said, wiping the blade on Hanson’s pants before he sheathed his knife.
He turned away and felt a tremor run through his body. Not because of the murder; he had done as much before, maybe worse over his life. No, what terrified him was that all he had built, all he had worked for now crumbled under the weight of deception and betrayal.
Surely it’s not too late. I can salvage this. Hunt down the smugglers and give them up to Aliyev—he may never need to know my part in this. Prove my worth. The grapes are ready to harvest. It’s been a good year. We should have enough to press and still sell grapes to make up some of the difference. Even with the fires, we have plenty of wine to send to Garenoth—fine vintages—to fulfill our part of the agreement. And Stanton—I’ll work with him, with the Guilds. There’s got to be a way to turn this around.
Kadar poured himself a drink with trembling hands, knockin
g the whiskey back in one shot to calm his nerves and slow his pounding heart. He dropped into the chair, averting his eyes from Hanson’s corpse, running possible scenarios through his mind, discarding each one with fatal flaws. He felt a little strange taking it all in, and his mind began to wander.
Wraithwind went to seek a relic. Perhaps there’s new magic, something that can cancel out what we’ve done, or enchant the Crown Prince—or better yet, the Garenoth powers so that they don’t break the agreement. We’ll make them give us more time, rescue us all, and Aliyev will be grateful to us and realize our worth.
Kadar stood and shook his head, trying to rid himself of the fog as he paced. His path took him past the window, and he paused, frowning as he realized that the sun had set.
It had been early afternoon when Hanson had arrived. Kadar’s pulse quickened, wondering if he had truly been lost in his thoughts for candlemarks when someone pounded at his door.
“M’lord! Merchant Prince Kadar!”
Kadar recognized the voice of his captain of the guard, but he had never heard the man sound beside himself with fear, not in all the years the captain had served him. He opened the door and found half a dozen guardsmen standing pale and frightened in the hallway.
“What do you mean by this?” Kadar demanded.
“My lord,” the captain said, too disquieted by whatever had occurred to fear his master’s wrath, “we have all just come to ourselves, to find the entire afternoon gone. I swear we did not sleep, nor were we drinking. And it’s all of us, m’lord. We’ve been bewitched!”
“Wraithwind,” Kadar muttered. He turned to the terrified captain. “Go see what remains in the witch’s workshop. Bring me news immediately.” He looked to another soldier. “Go check on Wraithwind’s partner. Now!”
The two men ran to do his bidding. As he waited for news, he turned to the other soldiers who stood at attention with expressions as if they faced a gallows.
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