The Sapphire Crescent soa-1

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The Sapphire Crescent soa-1 Page 8

by Thomas M. Reid


  Vambran was halfway back to the estate before he'd calmed down enough to take a deep breath. It was pretty common knowledge that the city watch functioned well inside the circle of intrigue of the city, just like every other major power player of Arrabar, especially given that they ultimately answered directly to the Shining Lord of Arrabar himself. Still, he would have thought it in Eles Wianar's best interests to see that some law enforcement remained consistent within the city, if for no other reason than to maintain stability for trade's sake. And of course, it was. So either the captain was simply a callous woman who cared little for the lower classes of people-which also wouldn't have been surprising, given her jurisdiction and the type of citizen she was charged with protecting-or there must be some other motivations influencing events. Most likely, Captain Leguay just didn't care enough to try to figure out what was going on.

  But Vambran did. Seeing those two bodies the previous evening brought back uncomfortable memories for him, memories and guilt. He couldn't just let the crime go. If the watch wasn't going to do anything about it, then he would track the imposters down himself. But first, he wanted some advice. Nodding to himself as the seeds of conviction grew into certainty, he hurried down the cobblestoned road toward the Temple of Waukeen.

  In his haste, Vambran completely failed to notice the pair of figures watching him from a corner, well back in the shade of an alley.

  "Up, now!" Jaleene insisted, throwing back the screens to all of Emriana's windows and letting in the light. "You've lazed around in your bed long enough," the handmaiden said, and her tone made it clear she was in no mood to listen to Emriana complain about the early hour.

  Emriana didn't care.

  "Stop it, and go away!" she snarled, grabbing at the sheet and pulling it tighter around her head, then burrowing beneath the pillows to escape the intrusive brightness. "It's too early,'' she groaned.

  "Too bad," Jaleene replied, yanking the covers away from Emriana and grabbing her by the arm.

  The girl did not fail to notice the lack of honorifics on the handmaiden's part that morning.

  She must definitely be in a foul mood, Emriana realized.

  Opening one eye, she looked at her personal servant and saw the tight expression on the other woman's face. Emriana groaned again.

  "Did Uncle Dregaul yell at you?" she asked somewhat timidly, sitting up when Jaleene pulled her by her hand.

  The woman's expression tightened further, wordlessly confirming the girl's question.

  "You have a full day ahead, including a visit to House Pharaboldi," Jaleene said briskly, ignoring the issue of her own guilt in the previous night's escapades. "Mistress Hetta instructed me explicitly to make sure you were up and ready to go by eight bells."

  Emriana groaned again. She had completely forgotten the tea that afternoon with Denrick. Sitting around in the Pharaboldis' parlor in an uncomfortable dress, sipping tea and nibbling daintily on tiny cakes while Denrick clumsily courted her was the last thing Emriana wanted to do that day. She flopped backward onto the bed again, sighing heavily.

  Jaleene simply grabbed her by both arms and hauled her completely to her feet, then guided her toward her bathroom.

  "I've already gotten a bath ready for you, Mistress Emriana. Get started while I prepare your outfit for the tea. When we're finished, you are to go straight down to breakfast. Your grandmother wishes to speak with you before you depart for House Pharaboldi."

  "Aren't you coming with us?" Emriana asked, already stumbling toward her private bath, stripping off her chemise as she did so and leaving it in a pile on the tiled floor.

  Jaleene sighed as she followed the girl, picking up the garment.

  "No," she replied, and the strain in her voice made Emriana pause and turn back. "I must have an extended conversation with Master Dregaul today," she explained. "My duties at the house, indeed my very future, are being called into question. I've already been warned that your presentation and timely appearance at breakfast this morning will be used to gauge my usefulness to the household."

  Emriana's eyes bulged at the notion that her own personal attendant, who had been taking care of her since before she could remember, might be let go.

  "Jaleene, no!" she said, putting her hands on her hips. "He can't blame you for last night. You didn't even know."

  "It's my responsibility to know," the other woman replied softly, the look in her eyes pained.

  Emriana felt the weight of guilt press down upon her, but she shook it off.

  It's not right, she silently fumed. Uncle Dregaul cannot hold her responsible for my actions. I'm not a little girl anymore, and she can't be expected to keep up with me day and night.

  "He's not going to do that to you. I won't let him. I'm going to go talk to Grandmother right now," she said, turning to find something to wear.

  "Please," Jaleene replied, shaking her head, "just get to your bath and get ready. If you really want to help me, don't anger your uncle any further."

  Her words were filled with desperation, and Emriana felt pity and sorrow welling up in her. She wordlessly nodded and headed back toward the bath.

  For the rest of the morning, Emriana remained somber and quiet, conversing little with Jaleene. She dutifully got ready for her visit, bathing and dressing without any fuss at all. Once she was finished in her rooms, she gave her handmaiden one quick hug and a meaningful look, then went downstairs to meet with her grandmother.

  Hetta Matrell was seated at the head of the same large table where the heated debate had raged the night before. When she saw her granddaughter enter, she dabbed at her napkin and gave Emriana a warm smile, then patted at the place setting next to her. Emriana came to her grandmother and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then sat down. Instantly, one of the serving women came out of the kitchen carrying a platter of eggs, scrambled and mixed with cheese and a sauce made of lemon and wine. The serving woman scooped a spoonful of the eggs onto Emriana's plate while another platter arrived with a baked fish stuffed with sausages and potatoes. Then came a fresh loaf of crusty bread already torn into chunks, and jars of apple butter, fruit compote, and even fresh cream so chilled and thick it literally mounded onto the hunk of bread that Emriana grabbed. A goblet of freshly chilled fruit juice mixed with just a hint of wine was set beside her, and another pair of hands slipped her napkin into her lap.

  Once her plate was piled high with food and Emriana began to eat, her grandmother cleared her throat.

  "Sweetheart, I want to discuss last night."

  The girl stifled a groan around a hearty swig of the spiced juice and avoided rolling her eyes. She knew it was coming, and in many ways, it was worse hearing about it from her grandmother, whom she loved dearly, than from Uncle Dregaul, whom she didn't mind annoying in the least.

  "All right," Emriana said at last, trying to put on a happy smile for her grandmother's sake.

  "Oh, don't pretend you want to do this," Hetta said, chuckling. "I know you better than that, my dear."

  It was true. Hetta had a way about her, an ability to read people and know exactly what they were thinking or planning, and precisely how they were likely to react in any given situation. It was how she and her husband, the first Obiron, had been so successful in business. Even though he had been the spokesperson during their business negotiations, it had been Hetta who had the shrewd business acumen and always advised the right course of action.

  "I'm sorry, Grandma, but I'm not a little girl anymore. It's time to let me out of my cage, and Uncle Dregaul just doesn't seem to see that."

  "You're absolutely right, Em. You're not a little girl anymore, and it is time you were able to make more of your own decisions. But child, getting caught sneaking out at night is not the way to prove that." It was funny to Emriana how her grandmother could tell her she was all grown up and still call her "child" in the same sentence. Somehow, it didn't sound wrong, either. "If you want Dregaul to respect your opinions and your adulthood, then you must first show him th
at you are capable of being smart, of making good decisions."

  Emriana sighed.

  "I know," she said quietly, "but I'm not so sure he has any better an idea of what's best for me than I do. He's always thinking about what's best for the family, and not the family members. I can't be someone I'm not, Grandma."

  "Em, do you remember your Aunt Xaphira?"

  The girl nodded and said, "A little bit."

  "Your Aunt Xaphira was my youngest daughter. She was also the scamp in the family, and she drove everyone, your grandfather most of all, absolutely crazy."

  "Why?"

  "Because she was just like you. She wouldn't be tied down, wouldn't be sensible, like Obiron or even her older brothers wanted her to be. She had initiative, and ambition, and she went off and joined the Order of the Sapphire Crescent rather than allow the family to dictate what she did with her life."

  "I understand," Emriana said. "I'll try to behave better."

  "You're not listening to me, child," Hetta said, leaning in close. "Xaphira was, in some ways, the child I was closest to. I saw a lot of myself in her, just as I see a lot of her in you. You share that same spirit. Your future is not a game. I expect larger things from you, you know that."

  Emriana actually blushed.

  "Thank you, Grandma," she said. "What happened to Aunt Xaphira? No one ever talks about her."

  "There was an accident," Hetta said softly, leaning in close to Emriana. "A man was killed, a very powerful man."

  "Killed? What happened?"

  Hetta sighed, obviously pained by recalling the memories of her revelation.

  Her voice even lower, she said, "It's not really my tale to tell, child. Until the person involved is ready, I think it best that you keep this to yourself. But my point is, the blame on our family would have been a terrible tragedy that would have affected the whole household. Your aunt sacrificed herself to make sure that didn't come to pass. She did something selfless so that House Matrell would remain unscathed.

  "Do not ever mention this again, though. It's a tale that must never come to light in front of the wrong people, for it could still cause problems, even today. Keep it to yourself, and eventually, you'll hear the whole of it."

  Emriana nodded, the sense of conspiracy genuinely frightening her. She was beginning to think that growing up wasn't just about getting to do what she wanted, when she wanted. Turning sixteen suddenly didn't seem quite as perfect and carefree as she'd once thought.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Grozier Talricci did not look pleased when Bartimus arrived in his employer's study. Two others were there, each of them looking equally grim. Junce Roundface was sitting in one of the high-backed chairs, a goblet of something chilled in his hand, his feet sprawled out in front of him, the heel of one boot resting atop the toe of the other. The Grozier's spy was staring down into the goblet in front of him, tracing his fingers through the beads of condensation forming on its outer surface.

  The other man, Bartimus did not know so well. The wizard had only seen him once before, a priest of Waukeen. He stood in one corner of the study, staring out through the latticework of a vine-covered trellis that shaded the arched window from the mid-morning sun beyond. He had his arms folded across his chest, resting on his ample stomach, and he was drumming his fingers, each of which was adorned with a gaudy ring replete with gems of every hue.

  Bartimus waited by the door, unwilling to break the silence that hung so thickly in the air. Grozier had sent for him, though the wizard did not know why. He began to worry that the anger in the room was going to be directed at him, and the longer he could stave that unpleasantness off, the better. So he leaned against the side of the arched doorway and waited.

  "I would have thought that eliminating the evidence would have dissuaded him from pursuing this any further," Grozier said, moving to sit on the corner of his desk. "I would think that a mercenary officer, or better yet, a young merchant scion, would have better things to do with his time. You're certain you picked up on his intentions correctly?"

  "My divination functioned as it should have," the priest said, turning away from the window and looking directly at Grozier. "He was angry and determined to keep digging when he left the station house. But you underestimate his priorities. He has no duties, no responsibilities, in his house. He receives a monthly stipend to live on and spends his time wenching and fighting, like all men his age and in his circumstances do."

  "Then why doesn't he go wench and fight," Grozier demanded, "instead of chasing ghosts that are better off left to drift away to nothingness?"

  "In a way, this is his fight," the other merchant said. "He's made it his."

  "Huh," Grozier grunted, seemingly unsatisfied with that answer.

  "What he needs," Junce said, not moving nor looking up at either of the other two participants in the conversation, "Is a distraction. Something else to keep him busy."

  "Or maybe a warning," Grozier muttered.

  "No, your skulking man is right," the priest said. "A distraction would be best. It is more subtle than a direct warning, less likely to awaken his suspicion further." The Waukeenar was smiling, Bartimus saw, and had begun to rub his hands together as he spoke. "It has to be something suitably interesting to him, though. Something more interesting than playing at investigating this niggling crime before him."

  "You have an idea already?" Grozier asked, looking expectantly at the merchant-priest.

  "Yes. Remember what I said he likes?"

  "Wenching and fighting?"

  "Precisely. I'm sure we can arrange it so that he has ample opportunity for both."

  "That's going to be interesting to try to pull off," Grozier said with a derisive snort. "He may already have some companionship of his own."

  "A young man his age and temperament is always interested in a little more," the priest replied.

  "What about his uncle?" Junce said, rising to his feet. "Didn't you say the mercenary was also planning to speak to him, drag him into this?"

  "Kovrim Lazelle can be easily dealt with," replied the priest. "I will see to it personally. Do not involve yourself in the temple's side of things. Our connection to your financial endeavors must remain invisible."

  "As you wish," Grozier said. "We'll keep on as before and leave these other matters up to you."

  "Excellent," the priest said. He turned to go. "Are we still meeting in two days' time?" he asked at the doorway out of the study.

  "Yes," Grozier replied. "The usual place and time."

  The priest nodded and departed without even acknowledging Bartimus's presence. Grozier, however, did.

  "Bartimus, stop lurking over there and come sit down."

  The wizard bobbed his head obsequiously and entered the rest of the way into the study.

  "As you no doubt heard," Grozier continued, "our young mercenary is being quite persistent. I'm concerned about what he might yet find "

  "I arranged it so that there would be nothing for him to find, as you and I decided," Bartimus said quickly, worried again that his employer was going to blame him for some shortcoming. "I can't imagine what else he could do."

  Grozier snorted.

  "Tell him what you and the priest discovered," the merchant said, looking at Junce. The rogue chuckled.

  "We followed Vambran Matrell today after he went to the watch headquarters to meet with Captain Leguay," Junce explained, flopping down onto the chair once more. "When she didn't give him any satisfaction, he left in a huff. The priest read his thoughts and discovered that Vambran seems to think he has a way of finding our phony watchmen. He seemed to have some notion of tracking down a dagger."

  Bartimus frowned.

  "Of course, I suppose that's possible, assuming that he knows of a particular dagger to track. Certainly, there are ways to do it, both arcane methods and divine incantations," he said. "But that wasn't something I would assume he had the capability to utilize, since first and foremost, he would need this dagger to be familiar, an
d secondly-"

  "Enough," Grozier interrupted wearily. "I don't care how likely it is that he can do it. The fact is, he seems confident that he can. In those situations, I tend to trust that he knows what he's talking-er, rather, thinking-about. The question we should be asking ourselves is, what do we do about it? I don't intend to let the fate of all my planning rest in his hands," the merchant said, nodding toward the door where the priest had departed. "Trusting in the possibility of simply distracting him is a little too chancy for my tastes."

  "I can get over to Dressus's place and figure out what dagger we might be talking about," Junce volunteered. "I can go ditch it somewhere harmless." Then the spy began to smile. "Or, better yet, I can go slip it somewhere rather dangerous, and let him wander into a little trap."

  "Ordinarily, I'd say absolutely," Grozier said, motioning for Junce to hold off. "But in this case, I don't want to take any chances. I think it's time we got Vambran Matrell out of the middle of this entirely."

  "You want me to kill him?" Junce asked, his eyes glittering. When Grozier nodded, the assassin said, "I think I know just the group to help me do it."

  "Then take care of it," Grozier replied, smiling coldly.

  After Junce departed, Grozier turned back to his house wizard and said, "There's a possibility that our friend Junce will fail. Vambran Matrell has proven to be rather resourceful. If that's the case again, it might not be such a bad thing for our pest to find Dressus and the others."

  "Pardon?" Bartimus asked, confused. "I thought we didn't want him to learn anything from them."

  Grozier sighed and said, "Right. I don't. However, I think Dressus and his rowdies have begun to outlive their usefulness. Even if we managed to get rid of the dagger, nothing says Vambran Matrell doesn't have other methods of finding them. I'd rather not take that chance " the merchant said pointedly, looking at his employee.

  "Ah," Bartimus said, "so we'll let him find them, but it will be too late."

  "And I hope too late for him, too," Grozier added. "I knew I could count on you to solve this problem for me."

 

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