Shoreseeker

by Brandon M. Lindsay

  As if his master’s wishes could be fathomed from a distance, Jordin was already standing at the door, hands behind his back, deep-set eyes forward. Out of sync with the latest fashions, of course, Jordin still wore his musty gray trousers that cinched below the knee, below which were his white socks. While it wouldn’t do to have a mere manservant dress like the upper echelon of society, Yarid couldn’t have the man looking like that, especially since he was the one responsible for Yarid’s own wardrobe. It had been Jordin who had discovered that robes had supplanted trousers as the new norm for the fashionable elite, and Yarid had been among the first of his peers to profit from that discovery. It was good to have a manservant be relatively unobtrusive, but Yarid preferred if he could do so without being offensively old-fashioned. Older fellow that he was, Jordin was still Yarid’s manservant, not one belonging to the so-called Greater Council. He should at least look the part.

  Yarid indicated the man’s outfit with a curt gesture. “I want you to go to the market and buy yourself some suitable clothes. But first see if Tirfaun is anywhere to be found. Begin by looking in any particularly dark gutters.”

  “At once, Councilor.” Jordin bowed smartly, turned on his heel, and left.

  * * *

  After nearly an hour of staring blankly at the fire as it dwindled to glowing coals, Yarid had his peace once again disturbed by Jordin’s silent arrival. “What is it?” he said more sharply than he intended.

  “Tirfaun awaits in the downstairs sitting room, my lord.” Jordin bowed himself out of the room.

  Yarid had nearly forgotten what he had been sitting around waiting for. He had finished his missives quickly, impatient to do something else. Giddy at the prospect of mischief, he rose from his seat and dashed down the hall, his slippered feet whispering against wood floors.

  Tirfaun’s thin frame was hunched down on the least comfortable couch in Yarid’s downstairs sitting room, as was his custom whenever he arrived. It was a beautiful piece, its trim elegantly carved with images of mermaids coupling with dolphins, but it was hardly worthy of the name couch; nothing was ever really couched upon it. Its cushions were as thin as rugs, but they were better than sitting on the floor. Barely. Tirfaun claimed to like the couch the best, but Yarid doubted that. No one could honestly like sitting on that thing.

  The aging Patterner lifted his bedraggled face when Yarid entered the room, his thinning gray hair disheveled. The beginnings of facial hair had begun to sprout on his face again, though it was peppered with black rather than simply gray. Yarid wondered when the man had bathed last. With his stained green smock tied around him with a battered piece of leather, he looked absolutely disreputable. Yarid couldn’t help but grin.

  Tirfaun raised a hand. “Before you say otherwise, you know it’s not good to see me. I’d rather you not embarrass yourself.”

  “Why, I had no intention of lying to you, Tirfaun.” It was a little ritual of theirs, though Yarid sometimes suspected that Tirfaun really meant his half of it. That was part of its charm. Yarid took a seat on the couch nearest the one on which Tirfaun sat, perched near the very edge, hands folded in his lap. A rounded table stood between them; within a breath Jordin had set two steaming cups of red tea on it. Yarid could tell by the smell that a bit of rum had been added to Tirfaun’s.

  He waited patiently while Tirfaun took a sip and grunted in appreciation. The Patterner settled back into his horrible couch and they stared at each other.

  “Well?” Yarid asked.

  “Well what? You invited me here.”

  “And you know why.” Yarid leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What do you know that I don’t?”

  Tirfaun took a draught of his tea, deeper than the polite sip he had taken, and settled the cup in his lap with both hands wrapped around it as if drinking in the warmth of the cup as much as the liquid inside. His gray eyes were troubled. Yarid could barely contain his anticipation. The more troubled Tirfaun looked, the better the news, more often than not.

  Judging by his expression, the news he was sitting on was going to be monumental.

  Yarid couldn’t begin to imagine what it could be. Most of the reports he had read portended a rather uneventful day. Even the arrival of Twelve Towers’ representative was remarkable only in its rarity; Yarid was sure nothing interesting would come of it. Just more of the same.

  Could it be Councilor Nangrove? Yarid had very recently heard hints of her daughter Jilliana’s infidelity, which was scandal enough—the daughter’s husband was himself a Lesser Councilor named Jacobs, who had strong ties to the Rafter’s Guild, who, in turn, were opposed to the construction of the Runeway since the very beginning since it would disrupt their control over trade. Rumor on the street was that Councilor Nangrove regretted shipping her daughter off to such an unpopular Councilor and had been considering forging a new alliance. Unfortunately, she couldn’t do that with her daughter married to Jacobs, and the marriage couldn’t be nullified unless there were sufficient cause, namely, an affair. There was also the risk that Jacobs wouldn’t press for divorce—he had benefited from the pairing as much as Nangrove and continued to capitalize on it. There was also the risk that the Rafter’s Guild wouldn’t touch the daughter for fear of their own reputation, which was of critical importance now.

  It was a veritable mess, and it was just the sort of thing Yarid loved meddling in. If he had information that no one else on the Council had, he could stir things up with his own signature style before anyone was the wiser.

  Yarid shifted in his seat as he continued to stare at the silent Patterner. If it weren’t for his eyes being open and staring deeply into his tea, Tirfaun would have appeared asleep. Yarid’s patience was becoming frayed, yet he kept his complaints to himself. Patterners were another sort of creature altogether, and Yarid had found that he couldn’t play by their rules and hope to get anywhere. So he waited.

  “Water seeks lowest ground,” Tirfaun said, almost to himself, almost too quietly to be heard. “As it always does. Such is the way of Patterns. The world simply works as it does, and we are its innocent bystanders, its victims. The least fortunate among us can see exactly which path the water will take. We watch, and can do nothing, and we drown just the same. We, alone, know the horror that is fate.”

  Yarid stared, mouth agape, as Tirfaun drained his tea in one inelegant gulp. This wasn’t like Tirfaun at all. Yarid had expected gossip, rumors, tangible things, things that only a man of Tirfaun’s particular and peculiar talents could know. Not philosophy. Still. Yarid had never seen him in this state. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed it in his excitement, but thinking back, Yarid realized that Tirfaun was even more disheveled than usual. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Yarid was at a loss as to what to do.

  Finally, Tirfaun met his gaze. The older man’s eyes had become frighteningly lucid. “Water seeks lowest ground. Well, a hole has opened up in the earth, and the water can’t help but go down, sweeping us all along with it. We will fall for all eternity. There is no bottom to this pit.” He shook his head. “I have always suspected this. Now I know it. Worse, the time is near. It’s on its way here as we speak.”

  “Who is it? What is it?” Yarid nearly leapt out of his seat. Tirfaun was not one to embellish or gloat about the things he knew. He was horribly genuine, which is something Yarid had always warned him about. It made him susceptible to manipulation. But Yarid wasn’t one to let opportunities slip by, and if Tirfaun was going to be predictable, Yarid would predict him. When Tirfaun became dour, it could only mean dour things were afoot.

  It was in such times that great opportunity could be found.

  Jordin set another steaming cup of tea in front of Tirfaun. At the first sip, he frowned. No liquor. Even so, it seemed to calm him. Yarid felt relief, and then gratitude towards Jordin. Sometimes he suspected his manservant had arcane powers himself, what with how well he could read a person.

  “I’m sorry I mentioned it,” Tirfaun said in apparen
tly genuine contrition. “I shouldn’t have said anything. There’s nothing you or anyone else can do about it.” He shot Yarid a warning glare, as if to tell him to stay away from it. Unfortunately, Tirfaun was not the manipulator that Jordin was—at least not of people. He should have known that the best way to get Yarid interested in something was to tell him that he shouldn’t. Of course, there remained the possibility that Tirfaun did know that about Yarid, in which case it wouldn’t hurt to indulge the man. Yarid’s interest was piqued anyway.

  It seemed as if Tirfaun wanted to draw out the suspense. “Enough of this,” he said. A dark smile stretched across his face. “I assume you’ve heard about Councilor Nangrove?”

  Yarid’s smile matched Tirfaun’s. He let his concerns of the moment vanish. “Shall we go have some fun then?”

  Chapter 25: A Little Harmless Mischief

  Yarid crossed the street, nearly tripping in his boots and trousers. He didn’t feel comfortable wearing common clothes such as these, with their scratchy cloth clinging to his legs, but he couldn’t very well ride over to Councilor Nangrove’s manse in his own carriage, announcing his actions to the world. No, what he and Tirfaun were doing had to be done discreetly.

  There was, of course, the danger of being caught. But making sure that didn’t happen was half the fun.

  He had stolen the clothes from one of his own servants. Jordin had cleared out the servants’ quarters so that Yarid and Tirfaun could leave the premises through the servants’ gate, and Yarid had taken that opportunity to take the clothes then. Jordin had been there all the while, eyeing him disapprovingly. It wasn’t like it was truly stealing, though. After all, Yarid did pay the man’s wages. And who would he complain to? The Council of the Wall?

  The air was filled with the low din of pedestrian voices and the scent of horse droppings. Tirfaun walked up ahead, given a wide berth and judgmental stares by the generally well-dressed passersby of the Central Avenue. He had his hands stuffed into his grubby pants pockets and his small satchel slung over his shoulder. Yarid had suggested that they not walk together at first, since doing so would likely draw more attention than not. The truth was that Tirfaun attracted attention wherever he went; he wasn’t the type to really blend in anywhere, so Yarid had hung back to use Tirfaun to draw attention away from himself.

  Despite the fact Tirfaun was naturally one of the most conspicuous humans alive—especially here in the Council District, where there were few enough beggars—he was a master of disguise and evasion. That he was an outlaw in four cities—including Garoshmir, which he usually considered his home—but could walk freely in any of them was testament to this.

  That was what the satchel was for. To anyone who looked through it, it would look like nothing more than an ugly sack filled with needlework. Strange needlework, but no one short of an Academy Patterner would see anything amiss in the little squares of fabric stitched with strange designs. However, if you found yourself in trouble and pulled out the right thread and tossed the square in the path of your pursuer, you would find yourself free and in the clear.

  Your pursuer would find himself … somewhere else.

  Yarid had seen Tirfaun work his needlework magic a handful of times, and it was truly a wonder. Once, a city guard had spotted them pilfering some melons from a merchant stand and gave chase. Tirfaun had used one of his little squares. Once the guard stepped past the square, he veered sharply to the right and smashed his face into a brick wall, as if he hadn’t noticed his own feet turning him in that direction. The man had lost the use of his right eye and could hardly speak now. Yarid, in a public show of good will, had sent a basket full of the stolen fruit to the guard’s house as payment for his valiant service. His family was very grateful.

  Unfortunately, not every one of their little excursions ended in excitement. Sometimes they went exactly as expected, putting Yarid in a sour mood. And since he usually went out with Tirfaun in the hours before a Council session, he sometimes had to suffer a series of boring, meaningless events strung together like some poorly written tragic play. He hated such days.

  Today wasn’t going to be like that. Yarid knew it. This wasn’t just some random tomfoolery. They were acting against a Councilor of the Wall this time, one of the few in the Accord who could call herself a peer of Yarid. And though Nangrove had the wits of a dog and a face to match, she held quite a bit of influence. Perhaps Yarid and Tirfaun were doing the world a favor by knocking her off her pedestal.

  Yarid kept his head low and his shoulders slumped forward as he followed Tirfaun, adopting the same servant’s posture that he had on their previous outings. A light drizzle fell from the bleak, gray sky. He loathed rain, but at least it gave him a pretext for the hood, which he had pulled up to cover his rather conspicuous hair. He was more worried about his face, however. Tirfaun had given him one of his needlework Patterns, which Yarid had pinned to his shirt. It was designed to tweak the image of Yarid’s face, making it seem just a little bit off. Yarid didn’t doubt Tirfaun’s Patterning ability, but knowing that a bit of cloth was all that kept him from being recognized made him nervous.

  Up ahead, a gray-and-green carriage trundled up the Avenue, heading straight towards Yarid. Two dappled mares, paragons of their breed, pulled the carriage. Yarid recognized the colors. The carriage belonged to none other than Councilor Jacobs. The windows weren’t shuttered, despite the drizzle.

  Yarid resisted the impulse to bolt. But if he didn’t, the carriage would pass right by him, giving the Councilor a chance to spot him clearly. Yarid knew the wisdom of taking precautions such as the Patterned face disguise, but he honestly had no idea it would be tested today.

  He took a deep breath, kept his eyes forward, and kept on walking.

  The carriage passed by him, its wheels splashing in the shallow puddle formed in a dip of the paving stones.

  Yarid glanced into the window—and locked gazes with Councilor Jacobs. Yarid could almost feel Jacobs’ deep-set eyes pick apart the lie concealing his face, could sense Jacobs’ inborn desire to leap off his seat, to point at him and cry out his name.

  Yet Jacobs’ gaze fell from Yarid’s just as easily as it had found it, completely without recognition.

  Against his better judgment, Yarid paused and watched the carriage roll away.

  And grinned. Tirfaun, you magnificent bastard.

  Yarid turned and trotted to catch up.

  * * *

  Trellises, forged from black iron, flanked the curving Central Avenue at regular intervals. The vines that enshrouded their lattices bore no flowers despite the season and were now merely shrubby, green things that did little to improve the atmosphere of the Council District. Today, no one stopped to admire them; instead, aside from the people riding or strolling along the Avenue, small crowds had gathered in the parks that separated the Councilors’ estates. Large canvas tents had been erected to keep the misting rain off the instruments being played by musicians. As well as to keep the delicate coifs of the present Councilors from becoming damp, of course.

  Yarid had been to many such parties and hosted quite a few as well. They were, in fact, as important as the Council sessions themselves, if not more so. Here was where deals were made, alliances formed, concessions made, and conspiracies hatched. One could say that the Council sessions were merely the by-product of parties like these, a show for the lessers explaining the deals that had already been brokered.

  Yarid didn’t frequent the parties as often as others, though. He didn’t need to. His power was consolidated, and most of his communication was written. His influence was almost mechanical in nature; he set things in motion, and they acted according to his will and predictions. Yarid half suspected that if politics were Patterning, even Tirfaun would defer to him.

  He smiled wryly as he passed by. Tirfaun was up ahead, standing by a trellis with his arms crossed, waiting with a frown. When Yarid was within earshot, Tirfaun jerked his head in the direction of the party. “Care to join your friends?
You were watching them with what one could only call envy.”

  Yarid chuckled at Tirfaun’s attempt to rile him. “Envy … I wonder what that feels like.” He shook his head, still grinning. “Politics is not breaking bread. It is breaking eggs. Stirring the pot.” He glanced to the party in the park, his grin hardening. “They’re still learning to boil water, and I am a master chef.”

  “A cooking metaphor.” Tirfaun raised an eyebrow. “Thanks. Now I wish I’d brought lunch. We could stop over there, grab something to eat. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

  Yarid grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him along. “I assure you, we’ll have our fill soon enough.”

  Councilor Nangrove’s estate was nearly opposite the Avenue, on the eastern curve. Unlike Yarid, hers was on the outside edge of the curve. She was on the Greater Council, having reached the age at which one was automatically wiser than the younger generation and thus afforded the title “Greater.” Having seen the Greater Council in action, Yarid knew it to be a misnomer. And though he rarely felt envy for anyone on the Lesser Council, he always felt it for those on the Greater. He hated that they were privileged merely for having creaky joints and liver spots.