A Charm for Draius: A Novel of the Broken Kaskea (The Broken Kaskea Series Book 1)

by REEVE, LAURA E.

  “Certainly.” Jan’s tone and smile were vague. He was up to something, but she couldn’t summon the effort to care.

  Jan scanned the room for a seat, apparently not willing to sit in the open seat between Lornis and Draius. By the windows, market stall owners were whittling down their earnings by drinking and dicing. At the next table, a councilman notorious for his womanizing worked on his next conquest, a barmaid. Across the common room was a table of mixed guard members, both King and City. Meran-Kolme Erik, Officer in Charge of Investigation, was just sitting down with them. Erik was currently Draius’s commander, but not for much longer. If he preferred her husband as his deputy, then she would soon be re-assigned. Again.

  Jan said goodbye and like any politic bootlicker, headed straight for his new superior officer.

  “I should get home to Peri.” Draius started to stand up.

  Berin laid his large hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her back into her seat. “Now, now. Last I knew, there wasn’t a school-master alive that let his students out early on Fairday.” Berin pointed at the clock standing by the fireplace, which marked four hours past noon.

  Draius relaxed. Peri was still at afternoon lessons.

  “Honestly, Draius, he manipulates you like a puppet!” Berin tried to use a low tone, but everyone at the table heard him. Wendell and Lornis studied their empty glasses.

  She pressed her lips together tightly, hoping not to hear the same old refrain. When she was nineteen, her matriarch suggested a contract with the Serasa-Kolme, pairing her with the handsome Jan, of whom she knew very little. Did she have any objections? With her mother gone from the Fevers and her father barely interested in his daughter’s future, she turned to cousins and friends for opinions. Almost everyone approved of the Serasa-Kolme, a long-established lineage responsible for the construction of the original walls for Betarr Serin and Betarr Serasa.

  Berin, however, was ten years older than her and the lone dissenting voice. “Self-serving, controlling, and a political climber” had been the phrase he’d used to describe Jan. “You’re Meran-Viisi, King’s lineage, you can do better than him.” She went forward with the contract anyway, brushing off his warnings as over-protective.

  Berin’s refrain now added, “I warned you, didn’t I?” At this point, he thought she should petition Lady Anja for dissolution, but he didn’t know the depths that Jan’s revenge could go.

  “Finish your drink.” The big hand on her shoulder loosened and patted her back.

  So there wasn’t going to be a public scolding. Grateful for small favors, she sipped her beer and enjoyed one of her favorite pastimes: watching people. Unfortunately, she could hear Wendell whispering in the new lieutenant’s ear. “Another woman in the Guard… no comfort clause… matriarch’s his aunt…”

  By the Healing Horn, why don’t I just hire a crier? In a society of arranged marriages infidelity wasn’t unusual. What was unusual; she’d just brought a formal complaint against Jan before their matriarch, because no comfort clause was built into their contract. She and Jan had resisted such a clause, against his grandmother’s advice. That seemed so long ago, so many deceits ago.

  The Sea Serpent’s common room was crowded. It was Fairday and everyone was celebrating the last working day of the eight-day. Tomorrow there would be little, if any, business done in Betarr Serasa.

  The barmaid plunked down another pitcher. She’d forgotten the soup and Draius opened her mouth to mention that, but the barmaid whirled and waved at someone at the top of the stairs.

  Draius looked up over her head to see Councilman Reggis leaning out from the gallery that accessed the upstairs “meeting rooms.” Reggis made signs for the barmaid to join him in the third room off the gallery. The barmaid responded with a toss of her blond curls that could mean either yes or no, and she moved to other tables before Draius could mention the soup.

  Draius turned her attention to the group of mixed guard members across the room. Sitting next to Jan, Erik put away another dark ale and slapped her husband on the back. A life of excessive drinking was taking a toll; Erik’s puffy face displayed a spider web of red veins spreading outward from his nose, and he was only starting his fifties. He’d been promoted from deputy commander to OIC of Investigation a year ago, and so began her own slide into professional darkness.

  “Draius, what do you think?” Berin asked.

  She jerked her attention back to her own table as Wendell repeated the latest news: the Horn & Herald was extorting loyal Tyrrans to boycott Groygan silk to protest their privateering and piracy.

  “Only a fool believes the H&H. There’s no proof the Groygans are financing privateers, or that they’re connected to Rhobar.” She raised her voice to be heard above the din.

  “Groygans can’t be trusted. Those skirmishes near the Saamarin—“

  Berin’s deep voice was sliced apart by the shriek from above, a high shrill sound that went on and on. Babble in the common room died down, overwhelmed. Wendell’s face went white and he glanced at Berin, who looked up at the gallery, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise.

  Draius sat closest to the foot of the stairs. She grabbed her sheathed sword, took the stairs two at a time and ran toward the barmaid standing at the last door on the gallery. She stopped so suddenly at the doorjamb that Lornis bumped into her. The lieutenant gagged, and Draius gritted her teeth at the smell of blood.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Third Fairday, Erin Two, T.Y. 1471

  Powerful men make fatal misjudgments because they underestimate everyone but themselves. The traitor had realized his deadly mistake, when he first felt the drug.

  “Why?” he whispered as he lost control of his cup. Wine soaked his vest and the hammered goblet ended up on the floor planks, lightly ringing as it rolled from side to side.

  I called my apprentice to catch him because I alone couldn’t handle his weight. Then, after we moved him between rooms, I needed help to lay him out. The boy blanched when I drove nails to fix his hands and feet to the floor.

  “Don’t worry, he’s already dead,” I lied. There was no need to expose Nherissa’s secrets to my apprentice. “And there’s so much noise below, no one can hear. Go stand watch at the window.”

  After the boy left the room, I answered the traitor’s question. I leaned down to his ear and whispered, “We know you sold the lodestone to the Groygans; we’ve checked on the ship. Now you’re our next experiment in Nherissa’s art.”

  A quiver was his only possible response. The combination of drugs I’d used had paralyzed him and started slowing his breath and heart. I opened his vest and shirt and made my first cut, according to the instructions I’d read. Since I’d planned everything and rehearsed each surgical procedure, I barely had time to appreciate the results before we were out of the room and down the ladder.

  I can savor the details now. An hour later, my hands still tingle from the sensuality of the procedure. There was beauty in the sharp blade as it sliced into his body, exploring deeper and deeper. Although the heart had stopped, the warm blood welled up like velvet and was nearly sufficient to complete the rite. I could sense the powerful death magic as I captured it within the circle and focused it into the amulets. The feeling became arousing, almost unbearable so, as the flesh was removed.

  Beyond the magic, I discovered I also delight in danger. I refer not to the necromantic rite, which has its own risks if the power isn’t directed correctly, but of performing such a rite over the heads of the Tyrran Guard. While those arrogant members drank and ate with others who hold up their lineal names like shields, a nunetton (but forgotten and nameless by my own choice) killed someone they were honor-bound to protect.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Insubordination

  We’ve entered the age of the scientific method, so I ask what need has mankind for magic? The Society for Restoration of Sorcery appeals only to romantic fools and I, for one, think there is no place for magic in this world. Even if the King can contro
l the Phrenii, they are no longer needed.

  [Editor’s note: The views expressed by Rista are not the views of this paper, which expresses gratitude to the Phrenii for their protection during the recent floods.]

  —Khalna-Nelja Rista, in Letters to the Editor, The Horn & Herald, Third Fairday, Erin Two, T.Y. 1471

  The barmaid kept shrieking and Draius had to grab her by the shoulders. She hiccuped and started breathing with deep, wrenching gasps while her eyes stayed wide. Looking bewildered, she held out a key.

  “Was the room locked?” Draius asked, taking the key from her limp hand.

  The woman’s mouth worked, but nothing came out.

  “Get a statement, written and signed, if you can.” Draius handed Lornis the key and pushed the woman toward him. The barmaid latched onto Lornis and, to his credit, he efficiently hustled her into the next room.

  Draius looked over her shoulder and saw an overwhelming mass of people coming up the stairs to the gallery. A few of the quicker patrons had already made it to the doorway where she stood and most turned away, retching.

  She had developed a strong stomach during her work with the Office of Investigation, but she’d never seen so much blood in one place. Meran-Nelja Reggis, popular member of the King’s Council, had been nailed to the floor by his hands and feet, and eviscerated. Strange symbols were drawn with blood on the floorboards and walls. With so much of his inner torso spread about and that amount of blood loss, he couldn’t still be alive. There was no possibility of phrenic healing.

  With no more time to examine the room, she dealt with the surge of people pushing toward her. She drew her sword and held it high, causing those at the front of the crowd to scramble backward.

  “You!” She grabbed a market stall owner she recognized. “Go to City Guard Headquarters at Number Ten High Cerinas Street. Tell the desk to send the watch to the Sea Serpent. Go!”

  She raised her voice to be heard above the din. “This is Guard business now, people. I want all of you to go downstairs and wait, because you may be questioned.”

  Prodding, yelling, and gesturing with her sword started turning back some of the clientele. The creaking of the gallery from the weight of the crowd convinced others they would be safer downstairs. As people began moving back down the staircase, she saw Jan and Erik wading toward her against the current. When they reached her, she was giving instructions to Mainos, manager of the Sea Serpent, regarding the sealing of the room. Erik held onto Jan’s shoulder and swayed.

  “I’ll give the orders here, Draius. You’re overstepping your authority,” he said.

  “The room’s secured, ser. Did you post someone at the exits to keep all these witnesses contained?” She looked down at the common area to avoid facing Erik. Below her was a boiling mass of people and she couldn’t see the doors.

  Erik drew a deep breath; his face became redder and his voice more pompous and slurred. “This is why you’re not promotable, Draius. You have no sense for the conventions of rank. It’s your place to take care of such details.”

  She glanced at her husband standing behind Erik. As the incoming deputy, this was Jan’s responsibility. His eyes slid away and wouldn’t meet hers. No help was coming from him. She leaned toward Erik and said, in as low a tone as she could manage, “Have you had too much to drink, ser? The captain himself will be arriving soon, considering who’s in that room. Go home, and I’ll have all the details you’ll need tomorrow.”

  “You want me to leave so you get more time with the captain? At my expense, no doubt.” Erik enunciated his words.

  Draius was grimly amused. Erik worried about schemes to take his position as OIC and his paranoia always focused on her. Now he’d given the deputy commander position to Jan, who had the natural male inclination toward politics and the talent to flatter and manipulate. If Erik worried about subordinates climbing over him, then he’d just given his worst threat a perfect position.

  “Ser, maybe she’s right. If the captain is coming and you’re not in top shape, Draius can manage the scene.” Jan put exactly the right nuances in his words, now appearing to only reluctantly support his wife.

  “I’m quite sensible and I haven’t just come off patrol!” Erik glared at her.

  She returned the glare. Caustic comments fought to get out of her mouth. When she finally spoke, though, her tone was cool. “Commander, a member of the King’s Council is dead and you have a possible witness in the next room, but are you sober enough to question her?”

  As Erik’s face turned purple, she knew she’d made a mistake.

  “Curse you with phrenic madness!” Erik shouted, spittle flying. “If you don’t leave right now, Draius, I’ll have you thrown out! Be assured that I’ll be filing insubordination charges tomorrow.”

  “Fine. Good evening to you, ser.” She punctuated her words with the whine of sheathing her sword.

  She hoped Erik saw his ale a second time when he went into that room. She pushed through the crowd on the stairs and on the bottom floor. As she suspected, no one had been posted to control the exits. Her saddlebags had been trampled and shoved under the table. She didn’t know where Berin and Wendell had gone, or the multitude of witnesses who were inside the tavern at the time the body was discovered.

  Outside the Sea Serpent, she took deep breaths of fresh air. She hadn’t realized how pervading that cloying metallic scent had been, sticking at the back of her throat like bad food. And there’d been too much blood—

  “Draius, wait!”

  Jan had followed her out of the pub. She looked up and mentally asked her ancestors, now visible in the evening stars, for patience.

  “What is it? Shouldn’t you be inside, showing Erik what kind of deputy you’ll make?”

  “He’ll be fine. Besides, I won’t be deputy until the new erin begins on Markday. Technically, I have no authority.”

  “Erik should go home and sleep it off. He’s going to trip right over his own balls, and in front—” She circled to her right, and Jan turned with her so that the light from the tavern windows lit his carefully expressionless face. He was taller and she had to look up to meet his eyes.

  “You’re hoping he’ll mess up in front of Captain Rhaffus,” she added.

  She was rarely surprised by his maneuvers any more. City Guard and King’s Guard positions were stepping-stones to political positions, which was why there were few women in the Guard. After all, “women have the mind for business, while men have the passion for politics,” went the saying. Her husband, however, could be as cold and reasoning as any matriarch when planning his career moves.

  “Commander Erik’s career is in his own hands, not mine,” he said.

  “A deputy should ensure his commander doesn’t humiliate himself. Afterward, the commander is grateful and indebted to the deputy. Isn’t that how the game is played?” She’d given up on playing at politics. Instead, she worked as efficiently as possible with the hope of pleasing her commander, but all she managed to do was antagonize Erik. In the past year, he’d taken her off every case in Investigation and changed her tasks to drudgery that rarely impacted their duties. This wasn’t the first time he’d ordered her away from an investigative scene, but they’d never before ended up in public argument.

  “Erik’s focus is on your insubordination. You made a mistake by losing your temper.”

  “Which you’ll never let Erik forget. Is that what you wanted to tell me?” She suddenly felt exhausted. The surge of energy from finding the councilman’s body had drained away.

  “No. I have a request for my wife.” Jan came closer and raised his hand to gently stroke her along her jaw line. It was an intimate gesture, from another time when she believed his gestures were spontaneous. Now she knew the gesture was calculated. Was he ever honestly attracted to me? Unwilling as her thoughts were, her body still responded and she was repulsed.

  “Yes?” She stepped backward and out of his reach.

  His hand dropped. “I’m asking you to wit
hdraw your complaint, for your sake and for Peri’s. You’re only marking yourself as a troublemaker, and our son as well.”

  “Has Lady Anja said that?” She watched his face carefully.

  “She’s my aunt, I know her. She’ll do anything to keep our son.”

  Draius was relieved. By the way he sidestepped her question, she knew nothing had changed while she was gone. His statement about Peri was true: no matriarch would willingly give up children to another lineage, not with the dwindling Tyrran birth rate. However, he’d also just told her that Lady Anja hadn’t rejected her formal complaint as trivial.

  She shouldn’t be talking with him right now, not when she was tired. Jan lived by controlling others. He influenced his fellow Guard members to further his career, he easily swayed the emotions of his son and wife, and he’d even made the mistake of trying to manipulate a matriarch. She still remembered his face when he realized he couldn’t influence Lady Anja. He might have occupied a special place in his grandmother’s heart when she was matriarch of the Serasa-Kolme, but this was not the case with his aunt.

  “Go back inside. Erik needs your help controlling the rabble.” She turned on her heel and left.

  •••

  “I know Groygan eyes when I see them,” Skuva said, his voice sullen and defensive.

  Haversar watched the boy silently. He didn’t like Skuva’s tone, but he had to make allowances. Even his gut twisted at the bruises on Skuva’s head, neck, arms, and legs. The left side of Skuva’s face had swelled to black, purple, and barely recognizable. This evening, he’d been beaten until unconscious, then left like a bundle of trash in an alley in Betarr Serin, the upper city. Haversar’s men had found Skuva, and brought him “home” to the bolthole near the Betarr Serasa docks, where Haversar ran his organization.

  He flicked his fingers, and someone hurried to put a wet cloth on the boy’s face and tend his wounds. Everyone relaxed. Skuva’s knees gave way as he was helped into a chair. He was a rarity: a true nunetton, a child who had slipped through the grasp of the matriarchs and their records, to be raised anonymously on the streets by Haversar.