He spoke with someone I could barely see. Someone as blood red as himself. Another merchant.
I stepped back from Borund, Marcus, and William and focused.
He wore a dark yellow coat, like mustard, covered with gold thread. Ruffles filled the neck, puffed out of the sleeves. His face was narrow, but not thin, his nose long. He had a mustache, neatly trimmed. His brown hair was streaked heavily with gray and hung down his back in a ponytail longer than Marcus’.
He seemed somehow vaguely familiar.
I felt William step up beside me and realized that Borund had broken away from Marcus and moved on. I turned back to Charls, drew breath to ask William who Charls was speaking to, but the mustard-coated merchant had vanished.
Charls had moved back out into the light when Borund finally approached him. He smiled graciously.
“Master Borund,” he said, his voice deep and somehow slick, like the dead fish on the wharf.
“Master Charls,” Borund murmured. None of the danger I’d seen in his eyes touched him as he reached out and grasped Charls’ arm at the elbow, as he’d done with Marcus, the contact brief.
Deep inside, I felt the Fire stir, a shiver running down the backs of my arms. I shifted slightly forward.
“Rough crowd down at the Broken Mast Tavern, so I hear,” Charls said.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” Borund grinned. “That’s why I like the docks. Always something . . . unexpected.”
Charls’ eyes flicked toward me, absorbed me with one quick, careful, considering glance, then stole away, back to Borund. “Yes. Something ‘unexpected’ always seems to intervene when you least expect it.” There was a tinge of sourness to the words. But then Charls shifted. “But Amenkor has become desperate. Roughness is to be expected, just to survive. Wouldn’t you agree, Master Borund?”
“No,” Borund said shortly. And now he let the anger inside darken his eyes, blatant and targeted. “No. And it won’t be tolerated either. The Mistress will see to that.”
Charls seemed surprised, but then his smile widened.
The tendril of Fire inside surged higher and my hand stole toward my dagger. William sensed the movement and shifted farther away.
“Ah, Borund,” Charls murmured, his voice soft. “I think you place too much faith in the Mistress. I don’t think she rules the city anymore. Haven’t you heard? The Mistress has gone insane.”
Borund snorted. “And now you deal in rumor?” An edge entered Borund’s voice. “Beware of what you play at, Charls. There is more at stake here than just business. You’re dealing with the life of the city. The Mistress will hear about the attack last night.”
Charls chuckled. “Yes, yes. Tell the Mistress, if you can reach her. She doesn’t grant audience to anyone anymore. To even get into the palace you have to get through Captain Baill and his guards. And then your chances of seeing Avrell, let alone the Mistress, are slim. The Mistress has never been this hard to reach in the past. I wonder why? And as for the city . . .” Charls leaned forward, his eyes going dark and tight. The Fire inside flared and I stepped forward, stepped between the two, near Borund’s shoulder, my hand on the dagger hidden at my side.
Charls didn’t flinch, his eyes fixed firmly on Borund.
“You would be wise to leave the city alone, Master Borund. Powers are shifting, have been shifting since the Fire scoured its way across Amenkor. You slipped through the net once; I wouldn’t wait around to see if it happens again.”
Charls backed off, smiled thinly and reached to brush nonexistent lint off of Borund’s shoulder. I halted him with a look and a slight shift in weight.
His smile faltered.
Then he moved away, engaged another merchant in conversation, his laugh echoing loudly over the conversations in the hall at something the merchant said. The merchant looked confused, but Charls put his hand on the merchant’s back and guided him away, head bent close.
He glanced back once, smile tight and self-satisfied.
Then he was lost among the crowd.
At my back, Borund trembled with suppressed rage.
The Palace
MYheart had barely begun to calm, back still pressed against what had once been a granite wall outside the archer’s niche, when there were sudden hurried footsteps from the corridor on the other side of the little window.
I slid down close to the opening and peered into the hallway just in time to see the two guardsmen I’d noted before jerk to rigid attention on either side of the doorway they guarded. They’d barely managed to compose themselves when another guard appeared, approaching fast, almost at a run.
I saw him just before he reached the two guards and shuddered, drawing back from the old window.
Captain Baill.
Beside the archer’s window, I cursed, then slid back to watch, eyes narrowed in anger and suspicion. What was Baill doing here now? He should be safely occupied elsewhere. In the city, on the walls, at home in bed—anywhere but in the inner sanctum of the palace.
Unless someone had warned him, had alerted him to my presence. But who?
Captain Baill wore all the armor of his rank, was moving swiftly, his eyes darkened with intense irritation and something close to hatred. His bald head gleamed in the torchlight, his face covered in scars. Old scars. Earned scars. They surrounded dark eyes that shifted restlessly even as he walked—calculating eyes that saw everything, and remembered.
He moved toward the two guardsmen with purpose, barked, “Has anyone passed by here in the last hour?”
“No one, Captain.”
“Fuck!”
The two guards glanced at each other, startled. Baill stared at the stone floor a moment, one hand rising to rub across his bald head.
Then he glanced up, scarred face hard.
“Come with me,” he said.
One of the guards began to protest, motioning toward the door they guarded.
“It’s a fucking audience chamber!” Baill roared. “There’s nothing in there! We’ve got bigger problems.”
And he began moving away, fast. Toward the main entrance to the inner sanctum, the doorway that had once been an outer gate.
The two guards hesitated a moment, then followed.
Then they were gone.
I dropped back from the archer’s window, heart suddenly pounding. Did Baill know I was here? Had he been warned?
The fear twisted into anger, the taste of sickness on my tongue now bitter, like ash.
Had Avrell had a change of heart and warned them? Had he betrayed me?
It seemed unlikely. He was the one who’d hired me. He’d been the one arguing so fervently with Nathem to convince him that the Mistress’ death was essential.
But who else could it have been? No one else knew I was here tonight except Avrell. He’d seen me in the meeting room, knew exactly where I was. . . .
A sudden flood of relief washed over me. It had been Avrell. But he hadn’t warned Baill to betray me. He’d done it to help. Avrell knew the plan, knew I’d been in the meeting room, knew that I was behind schedule. He must have assumed I’d miss the changing of the guard.
So he’d provided the guardsmen with a distraction.
My hand tightened on my dagger in determination and I spun back to the archer’s window, gauged the narrow opening. It didn’t matter if Avrell had warned Baill to help me, or if someone else had warned Baill to stop me. Whatever the case, this might be my only chance to get past the outer perimeter of palace guardsmen. And I had to reach the Mistress tonight. There was no more time left, not if the city was to survive the winter.
Placing one hand at the top of the opening, reaching through with the other, I shoved my head and shoulders through. If I’d had anything in the way of breasts, I’d have been fucked. It was the only reason I’d been passable as a page boy, and one of the only reasons the plan to get me into the inner sanctum of the palace would work.
I exhaled sharply, pushing all the air out of my lungs in one hard gasp, a
nd wedged my chest through next. Pausing to get a better grip on the granite, I drew in a gulp of air, the window crushing me. Too tight. I couldn’t draw in a full breath. Pain shot up through my lungs. I gasped, began breathing in short huffs, exhaled all the air again and shoved, the window’s edge scraping down to my hips.
For a heartrending moment, I thought the opening was too small, my frame too big. I panicked. Sweat broke out in the pits of my arms, slicked my palms. I shoved again, strained against the granite, felt it grinding into my pelvic bones—
And then, with a sharp, stinging pain, my hips scraped through and I collapsed into the archer’s niche on the far side with a hiss, legs still dangling out the other side, into the linen closet. I pulled them through, lances of pain shooting up my sides, but I shoved that pain away and crouched in the niche.
In both directions, the corridor was empty. But I could hear voices now, shouts, heavy boots running in my direction.
I darted across the corridor to the door of the audience chamber. The unguarded door opened without a sound, but slowly, the solid wood heavy. I ducked inside, pulled it closed behind me and turned.
I was inside the palace’s inner sanctum.
And all hell had apparently broken loose.
Chapter 10
WILLIAM thrust open the door to Borund’s office with such force it cracked against the wall and almost rebounded back into his face. I’d moved halfway across the room without making a sound, dagger drawn, before I recognized him. Even after two months guarding Borund, I still hadn’t relaxed when in his manse. Some habits from the Dredge were hard to break.
William stood in the doorway, mouth opening and closing, staring at Borund.
“What is it?” Borund said, rising from his seat behind his desk. His voice was steady, but since I’d been guarding him, I’d learned to read the undertones. They were touched with dread, as if he already knew the news, or already suspected.
William must have noticed as well, for he sagged slightly and drew in a breath. “Marcus is dead.”
I frowned down at the floor, raced through all of the merchants I’d met. I’d accompanied Borund everywhere for the last two months—on excursions to the warehouses, to the docks to meet the ships, to the local taverns and the guild hall for meetings with merchants and captains and sources of information. I’d met dozens of merchants, some from the cities along the Frigean coast, others from more distant places, like Warawi, a city in the southern islands.
At first the outings had been tense, Borund expecting another attack. He’d gone to the palace to complain to Avrell but had been met by the palace guard instead. They’d sent for Baill, refused to send a message to Avrell or even the Second, Nathem, until we’d spoken to the captain.
I’d been on edge the entire time, eyes furtively scanning the guardsmen as they passed through the gates of the inner wall, expecting to see Erick, expecting one of the guards to gasp and point, then drag me away.
Instead, Baill had arrived, his bald head shiny in the sunlight, his eyes flat and impregnable. The moment I saw him, I knew we weren’t going to see Avrell or Nathem. We weren’t going to see anyone. Baill was a wall—dressed in armor, body solid, face scarred, but a wall nonetheless.
Borund sensed it as well. He straightened outside the gates, jaw tightening.
He told Baill of the attack at the tavern, told him of the attempt on his life, even implicated Charls.
“Can you prove it?” Baill had asked. His eyes were intent, attention completely on Borund and his story, noting everything—every frown, every glance, every nervous shift in position.
Borund motioned toward me. “Varis, my bodyguard, saw Charls outside the tavern, saw him give the order.”
Baill turned his gaze on me and inside I felt myself cringe. Baill was the man Erick would report to. If Erick had told anyone about me, about how I’d killed Bloodmark, it would be his captain.
But there was no recognition in Baill’s eyes. Nothing but the same harsh glare he’d given Borund. As if he were assessing me, deciding whether I was a threat or merely an inconvenience.
We were a distraction, one that he did not want to deal with right now. There was something else weighing on his mind.
“What exactly did you see?” he asked. His voice was low, rolled like thunder.
I told him—of the hatred in Charls’s eyes, of the nod.
Baill grunted, turned back to Borund. “I can’t arrest anyone based on a look and a nod.”
Then he headed back inside the gates, the matter already dismissed from his mind. In that single unguarded moment, when he was turned away, I saw something in his eyes. Fear, concern, uncertainty. Nothing but a flicker, there and then gone.
Borund watched Baill’s retreating back in shock.
Borund protested again, but there was no proof that the attack at the tavern had been anything but a simple theft gone bad, a consequence of the rich roughing it where they shouldn’t be. And when no more attacks occurred against Borund, the matter was shrugged aside by the guard.
The Mistress wasn’t informed. Any attempts to see her, or Avrell, or any of the rest of Avrell’s staff concerning the attack, were blocked by Baill and the guardsmen. Access to the palace had been restricted. On the Mistress’ orders.
Two weeks passed without anything suspicious occurring as Borund went about his business. No subtle threats except through words on the floor of the guild hall. No one following Borund or William on the streets between his manse, the wharf, and the warehouse district.
After a while, Borund began to relax, began to think that perhaps Baill was right, that perhaps having a bodyguard was unnecessary.
My stomach had tightened at the muttered thought, but he never approached me about leaving. He looked at me with a troubled glance, as if he didn’t know what to do with me, as if he wanted to let me go but found that he couldn’t.
Then the attacks had begun on other merchants. All of them had been described as accidents, or muggings. And all of them reeked of something else.
Borund stopped mumbling about letting me go.
He discussed the situation—Baill, the attacks, the threat—with William. We all knew who was behind it. But nothing could be proved.
Borund went back to the palace anyway, met with Baill again. But the answer was the same. There wasn’t enough to convince Baill that these weren’t simply random attacks. That had been four weeks ago, after the second death. Captain Baill had been so abrupt and condescending that Borund hadn’t bothered when the third merchant died. The palace guard wasn’t going to help.
Marcus. I suddenly remembered the dark blue-coated man at the merchant’s guild. The one with dimples. The one who didn’t want spice. From Marlett.
The attacks were no longer restricted to the merchants of Amenkor. They’d expanded to include merchants from other cities along the coast.
I heard something fall heavily, like deadweight, and glanced up. Borund had collapsed back into his chair.
“Marcus?” He stared down at the papers before him blankly, then said again, “Marcus?”
William moved into the room, shut the door behind himself.
At the small noise, Borund looked up and he slapped his palm flat against his desk, sat up straight. “That’s the fourth one since the attack in the tavern.
And he wasn’t even from Amenkor. This merchants’ war has gone too far. It has to end.”
“It’s not going to stop,” I said.
Both William and Borund looked toward me. I rarely spoke, kept myself in the background, uninvolved unless one of them addressed me with a specific question, especially when it dealt with Borund’s business.
But this wasn’t business. At least, not normal business.
Borund’s eyes held mine, mouth pulled down into a frown. He didn’t want to believe what I said, didn’t want to think that Amenkor had degenerated that far.
“No,” he said, turning away from my blunt stance. “No, it must stop. It’s gone o
n long enough. I don’t care how ‘accidental’ some of the previous deaths looked, they weren’t accidents. And I don’t care that we can’t prove anything, that it’s all hearsay and circumstance. Baill can just . . .” He paused, steadied himself with an effort, then asked in a harsh voice, “How did Marcus die?”
“Knife to the throat, on the docks. It happened a few days ago, or at least that’s when he was last seen. They found him floating in the harbor this morning. It looks like another random mugging.”
Borund snorted. “This was no mugging. We all know that. I’m beginning to think even Baill knows it, and he’s simply choosing to do nothing about it, for whatever reason.” The longer he sat behind his desk, the angrier he became. His fingers were tapping at the papers, his eyes flicking blindly from sheet to sheet.
Finally, he slapped his palm down on the desk again and stood. “No. It has to stop. Get Gerrold to ready the horses. We’re going to the old city.”
“The guild?” William asked, moving to the door.
“No. To the palace. I want to speak to the Mistress herself this time. Or at the very least Avrell. If I have to, I’ll tell Baill it’s guild related. He’ll have to let me in then. It’s my right as a member of the merchants’ guild, damn it!”
William paused at the door, back rigid in shock, but nodded and left without a word.
“My apologies, Master Borund,” Avrell, the First of the Mistress, said as he emerged from an open arch into the sitting room, “but the Mistress is not seeing anyone today.”
Borund rose from his seat among the pillows, stiff with angry irritation. William rose as well. I was already standing, back to a wall so I could see the entire room. It was small, scattered with low seats, piles of cushions, and tables holding pitchers of water and plates of fruit. A few lattice-worked screens placed near the corners of the room sectioned off areas where people could meet more discreetly.
“I don’t understand why it’s taken so long for someone to see us,” Borund said. “We’ve been waiting for an audience all afternoon!”
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