Shoreseeker

by Brandon M. Lindsay

  Gorun’s gray eyes stared out from beneath thick eyebrows. “Well? Where were you?”

  “Minding my own business, as always. Perhaps you should follow my example.”

  Gorun looked away and stared at the flat wall opposite the alcoves. “A man doesn’t sneak out the servants’ entrance in disguise if he intends to mind his own business.”

  Yarid’s fingers tightened around the arms of his chair, but he kept his voice level. “Watching me, are you?”

  “No.” Gorun’s chuckle was coarse and grating. “I simply spend my days cloistered in my manse, cataloguing the breaks in my hip.”

  “I’m not sure what offends me more. Your watching me, or your admitting it.”

  “You spend too much time with that Patterner. He is a foul creature, and your friendship with him only weakens you.”

  Yarid shrugged. “What good is brandishing a weapon if it isn’t coated in blood from time to time? The other Councilors are afraid of Tirfaun because he’s one of the only things they can’t possibly control.”

  Gorun glanced back at him. “And you think you can?”

  “Control him? No, not really. But I understand him, which is its own kind of control.”

  “Be careful, Yarid.” Gorun used his name like a stern parent would, as if Yarid’s very existence were an admonishment unto itself. “You court disaster.”

  “Court disaster? No, my old friend. You have it all wrong. I’m done courting her.” He leaned forward and jabbed his own chest with a thumb, and his voice lowered to a sharp hiss. “Disaster spreads her legs for me time and time again. She lays at my feet when I snap my fingers. She continues to beg for scraps at my table though she has never once gotten any. That bitch is mine.”

  Gorun clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Then I hope, for your sake and everyone else’s, that you pull out in time. Abyss take me if I ever witness the spawn of such a union.”

  “Then may the day arrive sooner rather than later.” Yarid stroked his chin, affecting an abstracted expression of deep thought. “Hmm … the child of disaster. Maybe if I offered such a child to Tirfaun, I’d have an alliance for life?”

  Gorun turned to him, his wizened face a study in shock. “Shores, man. Is nothing sacred to you?”

  Yarid’s own face froze. For some reason, he couldn’t summon a retort.

  Luckily, Gorun apparently hadn’t expected one. Nor did he wait for one. Again, the old man shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re up to the task of governance. Sometimes … Sometimes I wonder if you care about the vocation at all.”

  “Yes, governance is very serious business.” Yarid flashed his most winsome smile and threw his leg over the arm of his chair in a fruitless effort to get comfortable. Though he put on his typical playful air, his conversation with the wrinkly old dung heap had stirred up his ire. The worst part was he wasn’t certain why. He fidgeted with a loose thread on the cuff of his sleeve for more time than it was worth and resolved to beat one of his servants later. Yarid quietly blew out his cheeks and glanced around the room for something else to grab his attention. He suddenly regretted the decision to come here as early as he had.

  As much as he didn’t want to talk to Gorun anymore, Yarid wanted to hear his wheezing echo across the relative silence of the Council Chambers even less. So he decided to strike up another conversation.

  Luckily, he was spared that exercise in dullness. At that moment, a few of the lesser functionaries trickled into the Council Chambers: messengers, clerks, scribes, assistants, and the like. Some of them would likely be familiar faces, having served in their positions—and never rising above them—for as long as Yarid had been a Councilor himself. Most, though, were quickly replaced. The floor of the Chambers, or the Pit as he sometimes thought of it, was often filled with a blur of faces that weren’t worth remembering.

  The balconies were another matter entirely. Yarid not only recognized the faces of the Councilors, but he knew everything there was to know about them as well, even things that they didn’t know about themselves. Though the functionaries had their functions, they were merely the grease that allowed the gears of power to turn.

  Gradually, the dozen lights built into the flat wall opposite the balconies began to brighten. It was meant to be a subtle thing; they brightened so slowly that unless one watched them or expected the change, they wouldn’t have noticed it all—until, inexplicably, the room seemed brighter. It was at once an unobtrusive convenience as well as a display of wealth and power. Most of these functionaries were doubtless still using open flames in their homes and offices for lighting. Nothing at all like the softly glowing globes ensconced in the Chambers of the Council of the Wall.

  Similar lighting devices were found in each of the balconies as well, though these were manually adjustable by a small silver lever on the wall behind the chairs. The lever was a thin bar of metal affixed to a thick slab of oak lacquered white, which was covered with an incomprehensible design, this too made of polished silver, developed by a Patterner. The very nature of the pattern changed with the position of the metal lever and was specifically tied to the light in this alcove. Such a Patterning was considered state of the art, or had been before the Runeway anyway, though Yarid didn’t see what all the fuss was about. Granted, they were clever, but they were cleverly doing a job that men had already been doing, albeit more crudely, for millennia. Yarid was more concerned with the glow of prestige they brought rather than the admittedly weak light they produced.

  It wasn’t long before more Councilors began to filter into the room. This was one of the other reasons Yarid liked arriving early; it gave him a chance to see each Councilor when their emotions were rawest. Few people thought to school their expressions before they reached the seats in their respective alcoves. It was a brief window through which Yarid could spot plots and strategies, thus allowing him to adjust his own as needed. He smiled as the portly Councilor Nangrove shuffled into her alcove. Framed by frizzy red hair, her round face had a haunted cast to it, her green eyes hidden in shadow. Yarid couldn’t see from this distance, but he imagined a quiver to her lips. It was all very quaint and precious.

  “You did something evil, didn’t you,” said Gorun, one eye prised open and staring wetly in his direction. Yarid started. He had thought the old man was dozing, perhaps even finally dead, not busy reading his thoughts. Yarid silently chastised himself for being so readable. It was a good idea to take Gorun seriously, falling apart at the seams though the man was. Much of the power Yarid now had was the legacy of what Gorun himself had accumulated. It was wise to remember that.

  Yarid flipped a hand dismissively. “Don’t be so old-fashioned, Gorun,” he said. “Leave the moralizing to the priests while the rest of us deal with the real world.”

  Gorun said nothing, merely shook his head and resumed his corpse imitation.

  Yarid pointedly resumed his study of the Hall’s newcomers. Odd. While there were constantly two Sentinels guarding the Hall’s main entrance in at all hours of the day, there were rarely any others in attendance. Now, however, Councilor Firnaleos’s husband, Rannald, stood at her side as she settled into her Lesser Council chair. He wore the Sentinel’s rarely-seen dress uniform, rather than the breastplate and helm of the two guards down in the Pit. The gold-trimmed purple jacket fit his broad shoulders rather well, Yarid had to admit, and was rather sharp, in a stuffy sort of way. The man was a match for his wife Sherin, whom Yarid had always found physically attractive. Though he had resisted any impulse to attempt to bed her. While her husband carried around that ridiculous empty scabbard at his hip, the other Sentinels did not—and who knew how they would react to such a slight? More importantly, however, Yarid didn’t want her bodily fluids staining his sheets. Her self-righteous stupidity might be catching.

  Still, that didn’t stop his gaze from lingering on her face. He had always thought her heavy-lidded brown eyes were a study in seduction—one that was often spoiled by her tight-lipped expression. A fe
w seconds of staring was enough to sustain him for a little while, at least.

  Once everyone had settled into their chairs and finished coughing and clearing their throats for the third time, a high-ranking member of the Greater Council—the highest-ranking, if paper were to be believed, though Yarid knew Gorun held the most actual power—shuffled down the steps dividing the two banks of Council alcoves and leading down into the Pit, clutching both railings as if his life depended on it. And it very well may have. Councilor Mundt was one of the oldest people alive. His liver-spotted scalp was egg-like in its utter lack of hair. He made Gorun appear to have the vitality of an erupting volcano.

  After Mundt’s painfully long descent, there was another period of awful waiting as he shuffled to the center of the floor. A few of the functionaries and clerks stepped out of the way with a slight bow of respect and deference. Those who thought they understood where true influence lay in the Council stood their ground, almost making Mundt go around them. Yarid thought their brazenness foolish; they were, after all, looking up at all of the alcoves, even those of the lowest Councilor. He had no tolerance for those who caught a glimpse of the trunk and thought they could plot the entirety of the root system as a result.

  By the time Yarid thought he, too, was at risk of dying of old age, Mundt finally made in the center of the Pit and turned to address those sitting in their alcoves. “This session,” he wheezed, “of the Council,” and then proceeded to blink once, “of the Wall,” followed by a long pause, “is now …”

  A dozen or so people shifted in their chairs. Gazes met other gazes. Someone even belched, stifling the noise poorly. Mundt’s head had dipped. One bold clerk in a preposterously feathered hat reached toward him and gave the old man’s sleeve a little tug.

  Mundt then lifted his head. “Commenced.”

  There was an audible collective sigh, and then business began.

  Thus began the seemingly endless stream of supplicants, whining about their problems. A man whose crops were mauled by his neighbor’s pig, which had gotten loose. A father, whose dowry letter outlined different benefits than the one his new son-in-law had. Actually, two such fathers—perhaps word had spread that the Council was acting favorably in such circumstances. A troupe of players complaining about the use of a stage somewhere in Caney Forks, which Sherin Firnaleos chastised them about at length, Caney Forks being her hometown.

  It was all very tedious. While Yarid had voted on a few of the measures—abstaining on a particularly important one just to keep his rivals on their toes—his heart wasn’t really in it today. They were all such mundane matters. None of it interested him; none of it seemed to matter.

  Usually when Yarid felt this way, recognizing it only made him feel worse, because he knew that this was what life had doled out for him. This was his fate, and though it had its perks, it ultimately amounted to nothing. Such a feeling could sometimes drag him to the brink of despair, and would appear from out of nowhere. He couldn’t explain it, and he couldn’t predict it. Worst of all, he couldn’t stop it once it came.

  This time, though, wasn’t that bad. He chalked it up to impatience. A couple of slightly more interesting guests would be coming in once all of these silly farmers, tradesmen, and merchants were finally shoved out the door. It wasn’t enough to make the dark feelings go away entirely, but it was enough to make Yarid reckon that they weren’t fatal. Something would soon happen that would pique his interest.

  Wonder of wonders, he didn’t have to wait that long. The herald, wearing a crisp white long coat and matching skull cap, stood in front of the twin steel-reinforced oak doors that led into the Pit. He bowed smartly at the waist and, once straightened, cried out for all to hear:

  “Please welcome Erianna Vondallor, proxy to the Governor of Twelve Towers.”

  The room stirred in a susurrus of movement. Yarid found himself leaning forward in his chair ever so slightly as the doors opened.

  The sudden silence was broken by the clack of high-heeled boots as the woman entered. A thin silver circlet held up her auburn hair in a loose pile that, despite—or perhaps because of—its complete lack of order, Yarid found appealing. Her dress could only be called such by way of habit; it was more accurately a state of undress. Dark green fabric that glittered like emeralds as she walked covered only the most important bits, baring shoulders, stomach, and knees, though even that last meager nod to modesty was ruined by the twin slits on either side that reached nearly to her hips.

  And that neckline. Yarid almost wished he were standing in the Pit to get a better view.

  Not a male eye was pointed elsewhere, not even those that Yarid knew tended to stray away from women. Yarid couldn’t stop himself from staring. Whatever boredom that had plagued him had been driven off like a kicked dog. He was now thoroughly amused.

  Strange, though, was her expression. Her nose was lifted high, and the poise she affected made her seem to tower over everyone, though she was shorter than many of those in the Pit, even with her high heeled shoes. Yet despite everything, Yarid could see something in her eyes that was very subtle, very deep.

  Fear.

  Interesting. Yarid leaned back as he considered the implications. Twelve Towers held to a rather isolationist policy. The Governor was also technically a member of the Lesser Council, which was unusual, since Councilors tended to live in Garoshmir, and Governors led from within their home city. Whenever that had happened in the past, the Governor would still attend Council meetings occasionally, at least whenever their own interests were at stake. Shad Belgrith had never once set foot in Garoshmir and had only sent proxies to Council sessions a handful of times. Only the Greater Councilor Sherm sat in Twelve Towers’ alcove, and he did little more than keep the seat warm.

  Because of this, Yarid suspected that Belgrith preferred to rule over her people utterly, without interference. She likely also thought that the Council was weak, beset by bickering and self-crippling indecision, and didn’t require much in the way of appeasement. Which wasn’t true, of course; the Council had merely not cared to bother with her affairs. Should Twelve Towers catch the eyes of the Council in a bad way, it would learn that the Council was not to be trifled with.

  There was no risk of that now, however, not with the fact that Twelve Towers’ Patterners were the ones responsible for the Runeway—and the only ones who knew how to complete it. Greed was very predictable, and that did weaken the Council. Not only did Belgrith know this and exploit it, she also had the ability to build something no one else could. The Runeway itself.

  He suspected she was very shrewd. And based on what he saw in her proxy, very, very cruel.

  Yarid smiled. This might actually be fun.

  Erianna Vondallor stood with a hand on her hip, scanning all the faces fixed upon her with arresting blue eyes. She looked up on them without respect, just as she seemed to face this task without relish; this was just a duty to her, and those gathered just people. The discomfort many of the Councilors felt radiated off them. Fools, all of them. Yarid’s smile widened.

  The woman’s voice was loud and commanding. “My mistress,” not her Governor, Yarid noticed, “has learned that construction of the Runeway has been discontinued. She had hoped that, with what benefits the Runeway is set to deliver to everyone, all objections would have long been dealt with.”

  It was as good a slap, and just as blunt. She was no diplomat, that was for sure.

  But at least one person had not been stunned by it. Frandera, Greater Councilwoman from Siltwaters in the west, regarded her with a raised eyebrow. “We understand the Governor’s concern, proxy.” Two insults in one sentence, a reminder of low status and also a reminder of Belgrith’s position with relation to the Council. Very economical. Yarid approved. “It is something that the Council would have liked to discuss with her personally. Since she mentioned she would be in Garoshmir, we had hoped now would prove to be such an opportunity.” Frandera tilted her head. “So where is she?”

  Well.
They certainly spoke the same language.

  “On business. As proxy, I have full authority to speak on behalf of my mistress.” Erianna leveled her gaze on the Councilwoman. “One of my tasks, however, was given in no uncertain terms. To find out why the construction of the Runeway has stopped, and to ensure that it continues immediately.”

  “Well, you’re in luck,” said some insignificant fool on the Lesser Council. “That’s what we’re here to discuss today—”

  “Tell us, if you please,” Frandera said, cutting him off. “Why is your Governor so adamant that this continue so promptly?” Then, almost as if to herself, “What does she have to gain?”

  “Wealth, of course,” said Erianna. “The fraction of the tolls that my mistress would receive, an amount this very Council agreed upon, would nearly triple the amount of taxes that our district currently receives.” She began pacing slowly, though her eyes never left Councilwoman Siltwaters. “Not to mention the benefits that her subjects—” not constituents, which was how any politically-minded Councilor would refer to them, “— would receive from increased mobility and trade. Furthermore.” She spread her hands in attempt at a gesture of goodwill, and even faked a smile as she eyed everyone in the room. “She was ever interested in the well-being of those people of the Council, and everyone they represent. She is a friend of mankind in a time when mankind has very few friends.”

  That fake smile faltered briefly. “But perhaps that time is past.” Then it disappeared completely.

  No one seemed able to make sense of that last little statement. Even Frandera clamped her mouth shut, eyes narrowed.

  “So,” Erianna continued, “my mistress has received a basic summary of what has stopped construction, though it said little beyond that the Governor of Naruvieth has objected to increasing prosperity in his district.”

  “That,” said the Lesser Councilman who had been interrupted earlier, “is one of the things we hope to resolve today.” Pembo Sint. He looked like an underfed weasel, and had the charm of one, too. Yarid hated the man on a day when he spoke and hated him even more when he smiled. He was smiling now. And speaking.