He received her in his rooms, without the animosity she had anticipated. So it turned out he was a political creature above all else. Perhaps he had spoken the truth about being a different man. Now, he’d never indulge in violence without cause. Palace comforts had perhaps grown more than agreeable as age took its toll on his bones. Though the man could still wield a sword.
Assessing him across the expanse of the polished marble table, Lin thought of Ned playing games of chess with the queen and it occurred to her that this, perhaps, was not so different.
“I’ll want you to tell me everything you know,” she said. “Everything of this place, these people, that might be useful. But let’s begin with the Second Magician.”
“Tarik,” he said.
“Do you know him?”
A brief nod. “We fought alongside each other. He has been … discreet, in saying nothing to expose me.”
“Why do you think that is?”
Garon gave one of his fierce smiles. “We were comrades in arms. I saved his life more than once. He saved mine, too. Together we led battles in two of the provinces.”
Lin leaned back in her chair, considering. Suppressing irritation that he’d concealed this from her.
“Tarik was in line to become First Magician when the previous one died. Kashak Saban was old—everyone expected Tarik would succeed him. It seemed expedient to cultivate a friendship with Tarik, so I did.”
“Well, Garon,” she said, exhaling her breath. “This is excellent news. As you must surely know. Tarik Ibn-Mor has shown nothing but enmity towards me. He seems to want us gone. What are your thoughts?”
He shrugged. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? He’s angry this younger upstart, Zahir Alcavar, was made First instead of him. It is Zahir who urges action against the Fire Dancers, so Tarik must push back. To what end, I am not sure.”
“Ned thinks Tarik might be in league with Ramadus.”
Garon remained expressionless at the mention of Ned. “It makes sense. He may be biding his time until Eldakar is sufficiently weakened by the northern attacks.”
“I want you to find out.” Lin made sure he met her eyes. “Rekindle your friendship with Tarik Ibn-Mor. Naturally, your being my man will present a difficulty. You may want to tell him you are … seeking an alternative partnership.” She grinned. “I imagine the feelings of antipathy you express with regard to me will be genuine. Don’t hesitate to be honest. That is, if you’re capable of it.”
“An alternative partnership,” said Garon, surveying Lin as if she were a balance scale he was weighing.
“Remember this, Garon Senn,” she said. “Whatever he offers you, I will exceed. Come to me with the amount he promises, and I will more than match it. Ultimately he has less use for your knowledge than I do, for what can he want with me? I am only the Court Poet of Eivar, a place he despises.” She rose. “But if you do betray me, know I will come after you with all the forces I can muster. Magical and otherwise.”
“I understand,” he said. He appeared unmoved by this. There was little else she could do, she supposed, other than have Ned arrange for him to be watched. Garon was far too useful to be killed out of hand.
If the conversation had ended there, Lin Amaristoth would have been pleased with a morning’s work, before the day could even be said to have begun. It was a dangerous game—she could not trust Garon Senn. But perhaps she could trust his greed.
The conversation did not end there, however.
* * *
IT was late morning by the time Lin reached the city walls. Majdara was a city of seven gates; this one, that faced out towards the palace, was the Gate of Falcons. Statues of those birds, wings uplifted, flanked the gate to either side. They were twice the size of a man, and gilded. The effect could have been garish, but the detail on the figures—the way each feather was finely delineated—made it breathtaking instead. Passing between the falcons she emerged into a plaza, and had to pause in her tracks. There was nothing quite of this magnitude even in Tamryllin.
Two fountains graced this plaza. One, she recalled, had been designed by Tarik Ibn-Mor himself. Around these, a market was in progress. It comprised what seemed to her a maze of hundreds of tents; to explore it thoroughly would take days. Lin drew herself up, laid a hand to the knife at her hip, and plunged into one of the many pathways through the market. She was hungry. Spices assailed her nostrils: cinnamon, cardamom, coriander, pepper. These were sufficiently alluring to overcome feelings of intimidation.
Later, as she emerged from the tents with a bowl of lamb grilled in honey and spiced with turmeric, Lin approached the fountain of Tarik Ibn-Mor. In this part of the world where water was more scarce, the interplay of art and water was considered on par with magic. It was undoubtedly this skill of Tarik that helped elevate him in the ranks—in addition to skills in battle and diplomacy.
This fountain took the shape of a mountain, studded with rocks and trees. Forming a circle around its peak, the beasts of the provinces. Each gazed with noble mien over the plaza as if they could see beyond. Each was level—the wolf, gazelle, steed, and leopard forming a circle as they faced outward. The message was clear—the provinces were equal. Rearing above them on an upper level, wings outspread and beak gaping in a cry, the gryphon: symbol of the Tower of Glass.
The message in this was clear, too.
Surrounding the carved marble beasts, water soared in arcs and jets to the height of a tree, into a basin that could have contained Lin’s chamber back at the palace. Sun knifed off the water.
People lounged here, on the rim of the fountain. They wore garments more loosely fitted than at home, of lighter fabrics, layered against the sun. Some, like her, were eating what they’d bought at the market. She did that for a time, spearing morsels of lamb with wooden sticks, watching the water course its triumphant arc overhead.
She thought, as she chewed and savored the sweet and sharp elements of the dish, that Tarik Ibn-Mor would be a stimulating opponent.
As in the imperial gardens that had been modeled close to those in Ramadus, Lin felt a sensation of familiarity stir in her, as she sat by the fountain. She rose, surveyed the scene. Beyond it—the market tents, the wares set out on carpets, the smells of sweat and spices, the cries—were archways, shadowed black, that led into the depths of the city.
The address Valanir had given her was secured in her purse. But it was with Edrien’s help, his memories, that she knew how to get there. Majdara had changed hands, conquerors, in the intervening years between the age of Edrien Letrell and this one; but its street plan was the same.
Likely even this market had been held here, in this same plaza, for all the years.
It took a great deal of time to cross the plaza; after the descent from the palace, and now this, her legs were tired. Sellers called to Lin; so did beggars. To one she gave her bowl, now picked clean. But once she reached the arch that led into a dark, cool tunnel, the noise of the plaza began to fade. A street sign declared it the Way of Water. The street was slender and winding as a stream. Shaded, too, with several tunnels. She would emerge from these, look up to see windows where laundry of all colors waved in the breeze. And then she was back in a tunnel again, where water dripped and the smell of urine was at times overpowering.
She came to a small courtyard with the statue of a man, a mounted warrior, at its center. This, too, was enfolded in piled windows strung with laundry. There were trees, boughs set to murmuring in a warm wind. On its current Lin thought she caught a new scent, of rotting fish. She was close.
The Way of Water led, ultimately, to the harbor.
Lin arrived at a back street near the waterfront, elevated and thus allowing for a view of the River Gadlan and the fishing boats upon it. From here, stairs carved in the cliffside led to the water. Seagulls perched on a nearby wall or circled, crying, overhead. Here, out in front of what looked to be residences, a pair of old men, white beards nearly to their knees, played a game involving a board and dice. Nearby
sprawled a large dog, head sunk in its paws. The men didn’t look her way and the dog was motionless, lazy in its puddle of sun. Lin had a sense that some form of this scene could have been found here, on this street above the harbor, in all the years the city stood. The game the men were engaged in, tabla, had roots in games much older from lands far to the south and across the sea, where once had ruled an empire.
That empire was dust now, blown on winds around silent tombs. In a time before, when it was near desolation but still a glory, Edrien Letrell had traveled there. If Lin allowed her thoughts to drift that way, she recalled a temple complex with clear pools set in marble, a slender boat on a lake before bronze gates. A princess reclining on a gold couch—a girl who had loved music. And poets, or at least one. For a time. Always with Edrien it was for a transient, murmurous time.
Lin’s business was not at the waterfront. She turned up another street, setting her back to the harbor. This one ran steeply uphill. She smiled a little at the sight that greeted her. Now the sun rode high, and the call of seagulls mingled with those of vendors.
Before the shopfronts, books and scrolls were piled on barrows or displayed on shelves—works more precious or rare would be sheltered inside. The Way of Booksellers was one of the city’s longest, running the distance from the Plaza of Justice to the harbor. At the top, nearest the plaza, were well-appointed shops frequented by wealthy clients or their servants. These sold some of the world’s finest manuscripts and books, in all languages. As the street wound down to the river there was a change. The shops became increasingly musty, dark, with ragtag offerings. Here nearly any work written might be obtained—for a price. Some were rare, drawing travelers from other parts of the world.
And some, Lin knew, were forbidden texts. That was another side to the Way of Booksellers, in shops nearer the river where laws were lax. It was not her purpose today.
As she ascended the street Lin thought about the last part of her exchange with Garon Senn. Now in the warmth of a noonday sun on a city street the memory was less unsettling, though not by much.
Leaning across the table she’d said, “Tell me about Yusuf Evrayad.”
Garon’s lips stretched into a thin smile. “He was meant to die. The Ramadians killed his entire family after a failed bid for accession and civil war. It seemed the end of House Evrayad. Yusuf was the youngest son, ever known as the weak one. But somehow he escaped Ramadus, made his way here.”
“How about more recently,” she said. “Eldakar seems to think the Fire Dancers hold a grudge because of Yusuf. What did he do?”
“That is simple enough,” said Garon Senn. “Following a truce, Yusuf invited the Renegade to join battle alongside him, in exchange for lands. He did not keep his promise.”
“You knew Yusuf well, didn’t you?” Lin asked. “You began under his command soon after he arrived from Ramadus with his men.”
At this Garon looked away from her. For the first time, he betrayed feeling; but she could not tell what it was. “I did,” he said. “I led battalions of his men, and grew to know them well. Enough to know this.” But here he tightened his lips, fell silent.
Lin leaned forward when he did not speak. “To know … what?”
Unexpectedly, Garon spat. “They were not men.”
“You mean…”
“It was magic,” he said. “I don’t know what they were. I didn’t ask. I took my payment, led his troops to conquer the provinces. It was enough.”
Even now as she recalled this, Lin’s heart beat faster. She wished Valanir Ocune was not so far away. He had known Yusuf—they’d been friends. Perhaps he could have made sense of this.
Finally Lin arrived at the place she sought. There were books outside the shop door, on neat shelves. The door was painted red, and shut. The shop window was likewise shuttered, also red. Lin had a moment of dread, that she’d come all this way for nothing. But the door latch turned easily, the scent of mouldering paper greeting her like a friend. At the back of the shop, standing at one of the shelves, was a slender woman in a red cloak. She looked up when Lin entered, alerted by the bell. The place seemed otherwise empty.
“Hallo,” said Lin. She was startled; she had not expected the merchant to be so … attractive. But of course, she thought with an inward grin—a friend of Valanir Ocune. Her appearance was otherwise notable for being almost colorless: hair so pale it was almost white, with skin to match. Her eyes very odd—the color of amber, like those of a raven. “Good day,” she said, not smiling. “Do you seek a book?”
Lin stepped farther in, let the door close behind her. The smell of paper was comforting, and she felt real regret she could not linger here, or elsewhere on this street. Perhaps later. If someone such as herself could be said to possess a later.
“Not as such,” she said, and watched the merchant’s face. “The Seer Valanir Ocune sent me.”
The woman narrowed her yellow eyes, made stranger by pale lashes. “Really.”
“It concerns the Fire Dancers.”
An unmistakable edge. “What about them?”
Lin took another step forward. “Valanir thought you could help me. It’s about the attacks in the north.”
The woman bit her lip. Then: “Bolt the door.” She indicated a curtain that led to an adjoining room. “Come. We can’t be heard to speak of this.”
CHAPTER
12
THE room behind the bookshop was small and dimly lit, but there was a fire for the teakettle and deep cushions for sitting. The effect was cozy. Lin saw why the merchant retreated here for privacy—the one window was a slit near the ceiling, allowing in a sliver of sunlight and sounds from the street. Children’s laughter filtered in, faint, as if from underwater. Lin could imagine retreating here to read by lamplight until dark. Being at once a part of the city tumult and detached in her own world.
Of course that was a fantasy. No doubt this bookshop owner was as entangled with the chaos of ordinary life as anyone.
Just now she was watching Lin. “Who are you?”
“Have you heard from Valanir Ocune?”
The other woman looked away. “I have—followed events in Eivar. So you are the Court Poet.”
“Good guess.” Lin sprawled onto one of the cushions. It was a welcome respite for her aching feet. “And who are you?”
“My name is Aleira,” said the merchant. “Aleira Suzehn.”
“Suzehn.” Lin watched as the woman got out two small, delicate white cups. “The name—it sounds Galician.”
The woman shrugged. “If you take issue with that, you see the door.”
Lin was surprised into a grin. “I would deserve that if I did. Of course.”
“Very well,” said the merchant. “You may call me Aleira, in that case. Since you are a friend of Valanir Ocune. How is he?”
“Well enough, I hope,” said Lin, quelling a fear that had been lately been stirring in her. “These are not good times.”
“They never are,” said the woman, and handed Lin a steaming cup. It had a dark, heady smell, tempered with mint. As Aleira took a seat on the second cushion, Lin was able to get a better look at her. Lines marked her forehead and the corners of her eyes—a face etched with experience, refined by it. Grey in the pale hair gave it a complex shine, gold and silver blended. Lin could imagine what had passed between this woman and the Seer. Valanir had mentioned this being someone he had known when he was thirty. Some two decades in the past.
As if she read Lin’s thoughts, Aleira Suzehn said, “Did Valanir Ocune tell you anything about me?”
“Nothing. I had only a name. And—that it was long ago.”
“Yes.” The woman sipped her tea. “I thought I’d heard the last of him. That tends to be the way of it with poets.” She smiled faintly at this. “It is of no matter—he did me a good turn.”
“Why would he send me to you?”
“So he really told you nothing.” Aleira pursed her lips. “Valanir saved my life.” Something must have show
n in Lin’s face, because Aleira looked amused. “You’re surprised? I have a sense that he does not reveal much, for whatever reason. Yes, when I was much younger and … fleeing … I blundered into the camp of the Fire Dancers. At the time, I didn’t value my life. When I heard they kill trespassers with a knife to the throat, then mount the head on their ramparts as a message … I can’t say I cared.”
“So what happened?”
The other woman’s eyes were far away. There was satisfaction in her recounting of the tale; Lin guessed it had been a long time since she’d last shared it. “At that time, Valanir was a guest of King Sicaro.”
“The Renegade.”
Aleira lifted a delicate shoulder. “So they name him here. Either he owed the Seer a favor, or Valanir simply managed to persuade Sicaro … I’m still not sure. I had lost a lot of blood. In my mind, was as good as dead. But Valanir stopped them. They let me stay. In exchange for household chores in the fortress, I lived there for some years. It was the home I’d never expected to find. For a time.”
Lin was silent. She divined that horrors ran between the other woman’s words. No longer did she feel inclined to smile indulgently at whatever Aleira and Valanir had once shared. She only hoped that as a young woman Aleira had, at least for a time, found a measure of peace.
It was a silence Lin allowed to grow, for the other to fill as she chose. From the window came the sound of a beggar intoning a plea: one word, foreign to her, again and again. A barked conversation between two men, joined by a third. A child’s incessant whine that grew piercing, then faded away. The life of a city. Lin said, “So. The attacks in the north.”
The transformation was immediate: Aleira’s calm demeanor became clenched. “It’s a lie.”
“What is?”
“About the Dance. It is not used that way.” Agitation drove the bookseller to her feet. She began to pace. “I’m not saying the Jitana are above acts of violence. Who is? Yusuf eroded what land they had in the north, piece by piece—whatever was not already taken by the Lords of Almyria. The Jitana were there before all of them. Of course they would reclaim it all if they could.”
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