by Matthew Ward
Lady Kiradin waved a dismissive hand. “Traitors and misfits.”
“The same might be said of our forebears, Ebigail. And all those who ended Malatriant’s rule.”
“I see no need to bring ancient history into this, far less myth,” growled Viktor’s father. He swirled his glass and glanced up at Viktor from beneath thoughtful brows. “Even if I agreed with your reasoning . . . Do you really think they’ll follow you?”
Viktor shook his head. “No. But they’ll follow the duke.”
“Josiri Trelan? He’s been locked in that crumbling manor for fifteen years. Why would anyone listen to him?”
“They’ll listen for the same reason we’ve kept him locked in that crumbling manor. Because they still remember his mother. What she stood for. What I’m proposing is very simple. We offer pardon to any southwealder who takes up arms against the Hadari. We offer them the chance to be full partners in the Republic again.”
Lady Kiradin spread the fingers of her right hand, seemingly lost in the examination of her nails. “Why would we do that?”
“Because whether the Hadari come or not, the Southshires are an open wound. Keeping any semblance of order costs us soldiers and resources better deployed elsewhere.”
“They don’t give us any choice.”
“Maybe.” Viktor knew it wasn’t that simple. The divisions between north and south went back far further than Katya Trelan. Old hatreds and rumours of witchcraft were the least of it. “But we can offer one of our own. All I’ve heard in the last fifteen years is how we’re better than the southwealders. Let’s prove it. Let’s put the past where it belongs.”
Elzar had recommended he find a way to counter the Council’s fears. Over the course of a long afternoon, Viktor and Malachi had agreed a broader strategy. Fear was part of it, but so was pride. Pride would suffer far less if freedom were granted to the Southshires than if it were reclaimed through insurrection. And then there was greed. A free Southshires would trade with the rest of the Republic, rather than simply having its resources requisitioned. Many of the crowns that currently spilled into the Council’s coffers would instead flow into private purses.
“Katya’s whelp will demand a seat on the Council,” said Lady Kiradin. “Your seat.”
Of course. Even with two of the nine sitting empty with no hope of being warmed. “I’ll survive the loss.”
“No doubt you will.” She rapped a fist against the arm of her chair. “And who’ll lead this army? Josiri Trelan?”
Viktor almost smiled at the bare-faced trap.
“We thought Governor Yanda,” said Malachi. “She’s familiar with the land and the local dignitaries. And she’s loyal.”
Viktor’s father grunted. “She did well enough under my command.”
“She did?” Even to Viktor, Malachi’s surprise sounded genuine. They’d spent part of the afternoon assessing candidates too. It had to be someone the elder Akadra trusted, and that was a very short list. The grim reality was that few front-line soldiers made old bones, and only the best officers fought from the front. “I didn’t know.”
Viktor’s father levied a rare note of respect. “She commanded the 10th at Tarvallion, years back. She’s shrewd, and she knows her business.”
He was thinking like a soldier again. For the first time since entering the room, Viktor allowed himself to hope that maybe – just maybe – his father could be convinced.
“What if the young duke doesn’t cooperate?” Lady Kiradin asked icily.
Viktor’s throat tightened with annoyance. Josiri was no more the “young duke” than Viktor was “young Viktor”. Another of Lady Kiradin’s subtle reminders of her age and wisdom. “He has much to gain. For his people, and for himself. Freedom, most of all.”
“If his line was well known for wisdom, we’d have no need of this conversation.”
“I’ll convince him.”
“The man who killed his mother? I don’t envy your chances.”
Annoyance thickened to anger, and with it the flickering wakefulness of Viktor’s shadow. It slithered about his soul, prying at the bars of its cage. The warmth of the room shrank away. Viktor scarcely dared release a breath, for fear that others would see it frosting in the balmy air.
“Kasamor will help.” Malachi offered the solution with an easy smile.
“Kasamor?”
“He’ll be halfway to Eskavord by now.” Malachi paused, then twisted the knife. “His coming marriage, or had you forgotten?”
“When such things slip my memory you may lay me in the ground where the dead belong.”
Viktor’s father sipped his brandy. “You believe Kasamor has that much influence?”
“He’s marrying the duke’s sister,” said Malachi. “And he has spoken of taking the Trelan name. That brings influence, and a certain loyalty.”
The blood drained from Lady Kiradin’s cheeks. When she spoke again, it was little more than a whisper. “If my fool son had any notion of loyalty he’d not be set on this ridiculous marriage.”
“He’s in love.”
“Love? Hah!” Strength returned to her voice, bringing fresh scorn alongside. “I’m sure Calenne Trelan is a pretty enough thing, but that doesn’t excuse her bloodline. And it’s not as though he’s a stranger to enjoying the one without embracing the other. It’s only natural that youth will have its fling, but the Republic endures on good marriages. Wouldn’t you agree, Malachi?”
Malachi bore the reciprocal knife-twist stoically. “Without question.”
“As well you should. Lilyana is blossoming into a fine Tressian matron. She has given you such wonderful children. You don’t deserve her.”
“As I am daily reminded, Ebigail.”
“If only Kasamor saw his duty so clearly.” She shook her head, her shoulders braced against weighty concerns. “Katya Trelan’s brat has stolen away my son, and now you ask me to forgive her family’s sins?”
“For the good of the Republic, yes,” said Malachi.
“The good of the Republic? The Republic lost hundreds of loyal sons and daughters over the Southshires and its so-called Phoenix. A beacon to the shackled, indeed. It has bled dearly of lives and gold ever since. I will offer no favours – not one – to that pack of traitors and inbreds. To make that mistake once a generation is more than sufficient.”
“We already have Lady Marest’s support.” Malachi withdrew an envelope from his inner pocket. He held it so that the others could see the rose upon the wax seal. “She believes it is time to heal old wounds.”
Lady Kiradin sighed. “Then Abitha Marest is doubly a fool. Her husband’s not dead, did you know that? He’s sequestered in a reeve’s manor a league from the border. I’m told he finds equal pleasure in the ministrations of impressionable farm-girls and the knowledge that his beloved wife believes him slain. Now that’s a reunion I’d like to witness. Why should I care for the opinion of a blind old baggage?”
With effort that almost left him breathless, Viktor forced the shadow back into his soul. The warmth of the room returned. More than returned, for his anger had not abated.
“And Kasamor?” he demanded. “I know his mind, and his heart. If the Hadari come to Eskavord, he’ll fight. What if he dies because we do nothing?”
“Then he dies.” Lady Kiradin met his gaze every bit as proudly as the Tyrant Queen Malatriant must have faced Konor Belenzo on the steps of her pyre. “And I will mourn him. But I must think of his sister, and the world Sevaka will come into after my passing.”
Viktor turned his gaze upon his father. “And you, Father?”
Lord Akadra stared into his brandy glass. His eyes rose briefly before settling on the tawny liquid once again. “I’m sorry, Viktor. Ebigail has the right of this.”
“This isn’t justice.” Viktor spat the words. “If the Hadari come, thousands will die.”
“And if we fight a war on two fronts, the cost will be higher still. And that levy will fall on our own people. Good, loyal citi
zens of the Republic. I will not chance their sacrifice for those who offered only drawn swords in exchange for our generosity and friendship.”
And with that, they’d lost him to fear. Fear that mistakes sown in the past would yield a bitter harvest in the present. Or perhaps fear of the price of crossing Ebigail Kiradin. It almost didn’t matter. The arithmetic hadn’t changed. Lord Tarev had refused to hear them out, and Malachi’s vote was not enough, even with Lady Marest’s pious support. Fear was paramount. It overwhelmed greed. Extinguished pride. The only thing that conquered fear was courage, or else a grander, blacker dread.
And in that moment, Viktor knew what he had to do.
“Might I speak with you alone, Father?”
Viktor followed his father into the dining room. The remains of the evening meal had long since been cleared away, and the servants scurried to their garrets. All save for Marek, of course. He remained on station in the drawing room, in case his mistress had need of his service.
Lord Akadra set the door to and folded his arms behind his back. “Say what you have to say, Viktor. But my decision is made.”
“Is it?”
Gritting his teeth, Viktor let his shadow flow free.
Darkness coiled about the elder Akadra and slammed him against the door. Viktor closed the distance before he could cry out and pressed a hand across his mouth.
“Hush, Father,” he whispered. “We don’t want to alarm anyone, do we? Malachi has a nervous soul.”
His father’s eyes bulged above pallid cheeks. Viktor kept his own face expressionless, determined not to betray the uncertainty and elation coursing through his veins. Thirty years he’d lived with the secret. Thirty years he’d been terrified of the consequences of discovery. No longer. He was free in a way he’d never imagined possible. That alone made it worthwhile.
Better yet, the shadow returned as soon as he called, sated by its brief measure of freedom. Little by little, the cold abated, until only exhilaration remained. Viktor held his father in place for another five count, then let his hand fall.
“What . . . What are you?” his father spluttered.
“You know what I am,” Viktor hissed. “Or do you want another demonstration?”
Defiance fought terror in his father’s eyes and came away the poorer. “. . . no.”
“All those years, and you’ve never wondered why I survived where mother did not?” Viktor leaned closer. “Well, now you know. And so will everyone else, if you don’t support our plan for the Southshires.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Of course I am. I’m my father’s son.”
“I won’t be able to protect you,” he hissed. “They’ll drag you to the pyre.”
It sounded like genuine concern. Viktor had no way to judge, for he’d heard so little of it over the years.
“And if they do, that will be the end of the Akadra family. I can already hear the archimandrite’s speech as he drags you from office. After all, who’ll believe that you didn’t know your own son was a witch?”
“I didn’t know,” snapped his father. “How could I know?”
“That won’t save you. And you’ll get no help from Lady Kiradin. She threw one husband to the mob. How do you reckon your chances?” He took a deep breath. There was no pleasure to be had in the coming words, but they could not be left unsaid. “And it won’t just be you. A pity about my cousins. How old is Messela now? Sixteen? Seventeen? She deserves better. But Makrov will take no chances.”
His father’s lips formed a snarl, but it collapsed without a sound. “What do you want?”
“Authority to treat with Josiri Trelan. To settle the mess you made me complicit in fifteen years ago.”
A little familiar steel crept back into his father’s eyes. But he was trapped, and he knew it. “On one condition.”
Viktor stepped away and folded his arms. “What is it?”
“That you command any forces raised, not Governor Yanda, and that you remain in the Southshires until the matter is settled.” His voice thickened with disgust. “After tonight, I don’t want to see your face for a good long time.”
Malachi felt a swell of relief when Viktor and his father re-entered the room. Anything was better than bearing the cold silence of Ebigail Kiradin’s empty stare. Doubtless, she’d sifted the possibilities as to what had transpired in the adjoining room. Just as plainly, she’d reached no happy conclusion. For himself, Malachi had no clue. He and Viktor had worn out their counterarguments. Whatever his friend was attempting, it was a mystery.
“My father and I have reached an agreement,” Viktor announced. “The amnesty will proceed, but under my oversight.”
Malachi frowned. It couldn’t be that simple, could it?
Lady Kiradin jerked to her feet and levelled an angry finger at Lord Akadra. “What have you done, Hadon? Grown a backbone, have you? Or lost one?”
He met her stare with bluff dignity. “It is a private matter, Ebigail. Family. You understand.”
“Family? Pfah! Yes, you’re all about family when it suits you.” She rounded on Viktor, eyes blazing. “And you believe I’ll fall into line, I suppose?”
Viktor looped his hands behind his back. His expression remained placid as any graven serathi watching over a Lumestran chapel. “With respect, it doesn’t matter one way or the other. Malachi, Lady Marest. My father. Three votes. That’s all we’ve ever needed.”
Lady Kiradin’s upper lip trembled, her eyes darting from one Akadra to the other, seeking a crack in resolve. She clenched her fists so hard that her knuckles cracked, then turned to stare into the fire.
“I’ll thank you all to leave my house. It’s late, and this nonsense has set my head galloping.” She picked up Lord Akadra’s brandy glass and drained the contents in a single gulp. “You may consider yourself among the banished, Hadon.”
Viktor’s father scowled and withdrew into the hall. Malachi couldn’t quite determine if the flash of anger in his expression was meant for his son, or his lover.
Malachi bowed. “Goodnight, Ebigail. My thanks for your time, and your hospitality.”
When no reply was forthcoming, he followed in Lord Akadra’s footsteps with as much haste as seemliness allowed.
“What did you do?” he asked Viktor, once they were safely in his carriage once more.
His friend sank back in his seat and closed his eyes. “I got what we wanted. That’s all that matters.”
Neither spoke another word that night.
Nine
The midnight chime of the guildhall bell swept across the tangled dockside slums. An hour of ravens and spirits, of housebreakers and silent blades. No hour at all for the virtuous to be abroad, nor for the wealthy to take chances in Dregmeet’s shadows. But it had been a quiet night, and Apara welcomed the click of the latch and the creak of hinges. She set aside her stiletto and whetstone and waited to see what the Ash Wind had blown in from the south.
The supplicant picked her way through ruined pews. The shrine had no lantern, but shafts of silvered moonlight shining through the gaping roof left little to the imagination. Privacy was important to those who sought favours of the Crowmarket. It was certainly treasured by this woman, who held her grey hood gathered at the throat. Still, Apara had recognised her from the first. Her kind didn’t come to the sunken seaward streets – not willingly. No constabulary patrols in Dregmeet. No bright lights and glittering swords to protect the wealthy. Just hunger in the shadows, and favours both begged and borrowed.
The supplicant knelt before the altar. The scuffed and graffitied stone was older than the Republic. Older than the city that had grown up around it. Older than hidden Coventaj, the Vaults and the ruins of Strazyn Abbey. Older even than the Age of Kings, or so it was said. Apara didn’t know for certain, for tales changed in the telling. That was what gave them power.
“A late hour to be abroad, lady,” Apara whispered.
“I couldn’t sleep,” the woman answered softly. “I . .
. I worry about my son.”
“As a mother should.”
“I had a dream, you see. A vivid dream.”
“Sometimes a dream is just a dream, lady.”
Hesitation. Second thoughts? Many had them. “He has fallen into bad company.”
“And you fear he will come to harm?”
“I’m certain of it.”
Apara nodded. “And your son? He is in Tressia?”
“On the road. Riding for Eskavord.”
“Then you are right to worry. The roads are dangerous. Does he have no one to watch out for him?”
“One companion. A friend. She’ll protect him with her life.”
“But you look to the Crowmarket for certainty?”
“Yes.”
Apara considered. It was an unusual request. Not in the broad scheme, but the detail . . . the detail was most unusual. Eskavord lay many leagues to the south, and it would require a rare talent to cover the distance in time. And rare was expensive. “It will cost.”
Gold coins spilled across the altar. “For my son, I will pay any price.”
Apara bit back the urge to ask for more. The supplicant could surely afford it. “Your petition is accepted. Your son will be taken care of.”
“One last favour. My son carries a ring. Its sapphires bound my mother to my father. I do not wish to lose it.”
“I’m certain you shall not.”
The supplicant stumbled back through the maze of rotten timber. Apara waited for the latch to click once more before claiming the offering. A bite confirmed the quality of the coin and the supplicant’s desperation both.
“You heard?” she called.
Nikros unfolded himself from his perch amid the beams, his thin face bright with wicked anticipation. “I heard, dear cousin. I’ll leave at once.”
Ten
The wolf-howl jolted Rosa awake from dreams of battle. She reached for the sword beneath her haversack. One wolf, she didn’t mind. But a pack? You heard tales about the wolves of Tevar Flood. Old stories of flesh and fur running like water into new forms.