An armed party of men in the black-and-silver livery of Dellor loped across the threshold like a pack of hungry dogs. They were led by an armored giant of a man in a wolf’s-head helm who was holding an iron maul that had to weigh at least thirty pounds. The final member of their party swept through the door with, Tyvian noted, his usual mix of flippancy and nervous energy. It was Zazlar Hendrieux, dressed in his best, a great cape of black fur draped from his sloping shoulders.
“This means trouble,” Carlo whispered. “We should leave now.”
Tyvian tsked through his teeth. “I’m disappointed again, Carlo. Don’t you want to get some information firsthand for a change? What happened to your sense of adventure?”
“If by ‘adventure’ you mean ‘do I want to witness you murder Hendrieux in the house of a Kalsaari Hanim,’ then I can assure you my appetite for such things is quite sated, thank you.”
“Shhh!” Tyvian hissed, and leaned his ear as close to the lattice of the veranda as he could. “You’ve got the magic eye—read some lips. What are they saying?”
“The slimy little stooge is offering the apologies of his mistress for not personally meeting Hendrieux . . .”
“The other slimy little stooge . . .”
“ . . . for their business tonight—apparently they have some kind of arrangement. Fariq is . . . Great gods . . .”
“What?” Tyvian prodded.
“He’s offering them the Hanim’s hospitality for the evening. Bloody Hendrieux and his henchmen are coming to the party!”
“Really?” Tyvian couldn’t help but gasp. “That’s incredible!”
“We ought to get out of here.” Carlo stepped back from the lattice and knocked on the door. “We can just tell them I’m too sick to stay.”
“Not on your life! Miss a chance to parade myself before Hendrieux? You’re mad!”
“Tyvian, I—”
Tyvian held up the empty chamber pot. “Besides, you forgot to vomit in here.”
The door opened, revealing a veiled female slave in diaphanous clothing who bowed deeply. Carlo cleared his throat. “Yes, I—”
Tyvian shouldered past him. “He is feeling much better. Which way to the party?”
The party was held in an expansive indoor garden that lay spread out beneath a domed canopy of pure mageglass construction. Among the exotic tropical plants and pleasantly bubbling brooks and ponds were scattered about three dozen cages containing a wide variety of exotic animals, from winged, rainbow-tailed coatl serpents to one-eyed, bat-faced cavern trolls, their thick, black-nailed claws clutching the bars as though they understood the meaning of their imprisonment. Wandering among this menagerie were five hundred guests showcasing the finest fashions from a half-dozen nations. Tyvian found it consistent with what Carlo had said about the local obsession with Her Opulence that the majority of the Hanim’s guests were from the West, outnumbering the Kalsaari guests at a ratio of three-to-one. Eretherians, Akrallians, and even countrymen from his native Saldor gathered in loose clumps around the firepits, all of them trying to find dignified ways to eat chunks of grilled meat and sautéed vegetables off skewers without getting sauce all over their fingers. Slaves, as it turned out, were usually necessary for this process, and it seemed that everybody had some half-naked Kalsaari stuffing food down their throats for them. Tyvian watched this and supposed that when this much pampering was being offered, deep-seeded political and ethnic rivalries could be temporarily forgotten. Either that or the whole place was crawling with spies. Or both.
Yes, probably both.
He let Carlo go mingle—by which Carlo meant “eat”—but kept himself to the periphery of the party, largely unnoticed, until he could find the key players. The Hanim had yet to appear, that was certain, but Fariq could be seen bustling around and socializing in his mechanical fashion, serving in his apparent capacity as the Hanim’s public face. There were a few prominent guild members and the Lord Mayor was in attendance, the latter seated on a fat cushion that just managed to eclipse the size of his prodigious rear end and was flanked by a half-dozen city watchmen. Tyvian, though, couldn’t have cared less about the city’s ostensible “rulers,” since the only real ruler in this city didn’t speak and was parsed out in little disks of precious metal. That really only left three people at the party he was at all interested in: Hendrieux and the two bald, tattooed old Kalsaaris chatting with him around a firepit placed discreetly behind a copse of palm trees. It was a less central location than he would have wanted, but it would have to do.
Tyvian made a direct line through the crowd toward Hendrieux’s secluded conference, brushing past Eretherian ladies in massive gowns and brushing aside Saldorian lords in their capes and velvet waistcoats. He picked a few pockets, collecting a half-dozen heavy gold marks in the palm of one hand, and then wrapped them tightly in a bit of wide silk ribbon he deftly pulled out of an Akrallian lady’s elaborate whalebone bustle. Each time he nabbed a trinket from another half-drunk party guest, the ring cut into his flesh, making him grimace. He had to remember to play his cards right tonight—the Iron Ring could ruin everything if he wasn’t careful.
As he got closer to Hendrieux, he saw one of the Akrallian’s Delloran guards standing at the edge of the meeting, keeping watch and making sure no one eavesdropped or interfered. The man had sharp eyes and picked Tyvian out at thirty paces. Good—what he had planned would be easier if the bodyguard were facing him directly.
Carlo was standing next to him. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m going to talk with Hendrieux.”
“Do you really think his man there is going to let you?”
Tyvian grinned. “Don’t worry, Carlo—he’s been disarmed.”
Carlo snorted. “He’s six feet tall and probably weighs two hundred pounds. He doesn’t need weapons.”
“You never have faith in my abilities, do you?”
They moved together through the crowd. As they got closer, Carlo let the distance between them grow. “Your abilities are exactly what I’m worried about. Remember our deal!”
“Don’t worry—I remember,” Tyvian hissed, mostly under his breath. He was only about five paces from the guard.
The Delloran put up a gauntleted hand. “Private discussion. Move along.”
Tyvian hefted the ribbon-wrapped pound of gold and threw it as hard as he could into the Delloran man’s eye. It struck home with a satisfying smack and the guard reflexively put his hands up to his bruised eyeball. In that instant, Tyvian kicked him in the groin so hard the man could only produce a whistling moan as he fell on his side. The ring throbbed with displeasure, but not enough to break Tyvian’s stride.
He stepped over the bodyguard’s moaning form and plopped himself on a cushion right next to his former partner. He popped his most winning grin. “Hello, Zaz.”
Hendrieux’s mouth dropped open as though it were unhinged. He sputtered but no coherent words formed.
Tyvian decided to fill the silence. “Turns out your men don’t actually know what I look like. Rather sloppy of you, I must say.” He sighed at Hendrieux’s ink-stained fingers. “Then again, you always did have poor judgment.”
Hendrieux looked at the armored giant of a man who had led the party into the Hanim’s palace. “Gallo! Get him out of here!”
Tyvian held up a hand. “Now now—I’ve no intention of disrupting your little meeting.” Tyvian looked at the two bald Kalsaaris. “Hello. My name’s Tyvian, and Zaz here was an old business partner of mine. On a related note, I should warn you that he has a tendency to betray his business partners.”
If the two Kalsaaris were bothered by this, they didn’t show it. Their eyes, Tyvian noted, were almost reptilian in color and shape, and their skin was brown, dry, and creased, like sun-baked leather. Their fingers were long, thin, and covered in th
e small scars and stains of artisans who worked in delicate, dangerous crafts.
Hendrieux gave Tyvian a weak grin that did little to hide the panic in his eyes. “Tyv, I realize you must be angry, but—”
Tyvian shook his head. “You’re trying to explain yourself, but the simple fact is, Zaz, I don’t care why you stabbed me in the back. I don’t care what riches Sahand offered to pay you or why—all I care about is that you double-crossed me when I had been nothing but straight with you. We made a lot of money together, you and I. We built names for each other. I was even fair with the profits. Your forty percent was more than sufficient to sustain your . . .” Tyvian sneered at Hendrieux’s fur cape and out-of-fashion boots. “ . . . lifestyle.”
The two Kalsaaris exchanged glances and muttered to one another in their language. One of them rose as if to leave. Hendrieux leapt to his feet. “No, wait!”
Tyvian got up more slowly. “Yes, please stay; I’ll be on my way. I just wanted to pass along a little message.” He put an arm around Hendrieux and pulled him close so he could whisper in his ear. “Run, you little weasel. Flee like the mincing coward you are. Cower in dirty corners. Surround yourself with Sahand’s best troops, if you must, but I will find you and I will destroy you, and when I am finished the whole world will pass by your crushed remains and know what happens to cheap thugs when they try to dupe their betters.”
Hendrieux laughed faintly. “Well . . . we’ll see.”
Tyvian executed a smart half-bow. “See you tomorrow, Zaz.”
A heavy gauntlet fell on Tyvian’s shoulder and he was spun around to see the hard face and blackened eye of the guard he had taken down moments before, his fist cocked back to throw a punch that would level a cow. Even as Tyvian winced to take the blow, he found himself most disappointed that the Delloran’s quick recovery had spoiled such a fine exit.
The punch, though, never fell. Gongs were sounding and horns were blowing, and suddenly the Delloran was standing at attention. Tyvian saw that all of the assembled guests were coming to their feet and turning their attention to the same place. Losing no time slipping away from the angry guard, he found Carlo and took up position beside him.
“I trust that went well?” Carlo snarled.
Tyvian nodded. “I still have all my teeth.”
Carlo rolled his good eye. “You’re ridiculous.”
“This is a party, Carlo—we’re supposed to be having fun.”
Carlo snorted. “No, we’re supposed to be making a deal. Focus now—the Hanim approaches.”
Massive gilded doors at one end of the hall were pulled open, revealing a hallway beyond plated in pure gold and lit by ebony lanterns in the shape of the Imperial Raptor of Kalsaar. At the center of this hall, carried aloft in a sedan chair, was Angharad tin’Theliara Hanim of the Imperial House of Theliara.
Tyvian immediately forgot the little confrontation with Hendrieux as his mind was overridden with other, more pressing thoughts. The Hanim possessed a kind of beauty he had never seen before—dusky, intense, powerful. She sat with the bearing of a queen in her thronelike chair, carried by four burly slaves who strained under the weight of its jeweled frame. Her face was thin and angular, with high cheekbones and full lips, her black hair spilling freely across her delicate shoulders in gleaming waves. Her eyes were yellow, like gold, and they swept across her guests as though she were a raptor herself, looking for a likely mouse to snatch up. Her hands and wrists dripped with rubies and gold that matched her long silk gown, and her fingers each had a bloodred fingernail two inches long—the sign of a woman who never needed to work.
Carlo elbowed Tyvian in the ribs. “Stop staring at her.”
“The hell I will,” Tyvian breathed. “She’s incredible.”
“She can have us tortured and killed with a flick of her eyelash,” Carlo hissed in his ear.
Tyvian cocked an eyebrow. “What kind of torture, do you suppose?”
The slaves set the Hanim’s throne down, and somewhere in the garden a heavy staff was slammed against the floor. A voice yelled, “All kneel before Her Immortal Grace, Angharad tin’Theliara Hanim!”
The Kalsaaris fell on their faces instantly, the Westerners bowed and curtsied deeply, but Tyvian did not budge. The Hanim’s golden gaze fixed on him immediately. “You do not kneel?” she said coolly, her eyelids drooping as though bored.
He shrugged and sighed. “Sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t do that.”
“You are a guest in the Hanim’s home!” Fariq appeared from behind a pillar, his face red and beard twitching. “You insult her!”
Tyvian shook his head. “I assure you, Fooka, no insult is intended, but I would also hasten to add that I am not a guest.”
“I am Fariq!” The slavemaster stomped his foot.
“If you are not a guest, then what are you?” the Hanim asked, her face impassive.
“A gift, it seems. Accept me with the compliments of Carlo diCarlo.” Tyvian made a short bow that was more head-nod than anything else.
The Hanim’s strange eyes bored into Tyvian’s for a long moment, but he did not look away. Finally, he thought he saw the barest hint of a smile playing around the edges of her mouth. “Slaves, take this gift to my suite, where I will inspect it later.”
Two mark-slaves grabbed Tyvian by the elbows and shoulders and dragged him off. They were not gentle.
“You may rise.” The Hanim clapped her hands. “Let the party continue.”
CHAPTER 2
TROUBLE WEARS SILK
The mark-slaves heaved Tyvian headlong onto a pile of silk cushions. The irislike portal through which he had been tossed swiveled closed with a grinding metallic sound, and then there was silence.
Digging his way out of the pillow-pile, Tyvian checked his person for any permanent damage. Aside from a few bruises he would be feeling for the next several days and a couple tears in his clothing that would need the attention of a good tailor, he was unharmed. He also noted that they had not found nor relieved him of the dagger in his boot. He doubted it would be necessary or even effective in securing his goals that evening, but still, it never hurt to be prepared.
The room in which he found himself was beyond even his expectations. Occupying the whole top floor of one of the Theliara compound’s many minarets, Astral enchantments had been used to more than double the available space inside the circular room, including a broad terrace with arching windows showing panoramic views of the city around him. These windows, Tyvian noted, opened onto a long stone balcony that ran around the circumference of the room. Within the luxurious room there was a titanic bath carved from black granite that bubbled with hot water, a bed of such proportions that it could sleep ten people, and its own slave, who stood quietly next to the one entrance.
Tyvian got up and straightened his clothing. “I say, my good fellow, would it be possible for me to get a glass of wine?”
The slave produced a glass of wine from behind his back, already poured and on a tray. Even Tyvian, accustomed as he was to magical amenities, was taken aback. “Were you expecting me to ask for red wine?”
The slave bowed his head low. “Your wine, saab.”
Tyvian took the glass from the tray. “On second thought, I’d rather have white—chilled, please.”
The slave put the tray behind him and brought it back, this time with a glass of white wine. Tyvian took it and noted that it was cool to the touch. “Great gods, that’s incredible! How do you do that?”
The slave bowed low again but did not answer.
Tyvian shrugged. “Of course you don’t know—silly of me to ask. So, what’s your name?”
“I am Walid.”
“Worked here long?”
“Since my birth, saab.”
“Does the Hanim treat her slaves well?”
Walid bowed low. “She is our s
tar in the heavens.”
Tyvian snorted. “That does not answer the question, you know. Never mind, no need to get you in trouble.”
Tyvian knew he would be there awhile. The Hanim would spend at least some time among her guests, accepting their birthday wishes and gifts. Even if the unexpected presence of Hendrieux and his cronies was enough to cut her public appearance short, he figured he had at least an hour. He spent it asking Walid to acquire for him various objects from thin air, most of which he discarded when he tired of them—a leg of lamb, a tennis racket, a live chicken, a diamond-studded bracelet, chocolates, and so on—until there was a pile of junk three feet high and he had eaten his fill of every delicacy he could think of. Then he arranged the most comfortable cushions in the room in front of the self-lighting firepit and reclined on them, noting for the first time the skylights in the ceiling. The fatigue of the past few weeks caught up to him at once, and he dozed off.
When he dreamed, the images were discordant and nonsensical. The only face he could make out was of that hairy Northron oaf, Eddereon—the man who had cursed him with the ring. The bearded mountain man spoke to him in a language he didn’t understand. Tyvian threw eggs at him until he went away, and he laughed. I’ll show you!
He awoke suddenly. He was looking up into the golden eyes of the Hanim, his head on her lap, her long fingernails running through his hair. He stiffened, and she smiled, her teeth gleaming in the firelight. “Well, it seems my present is finally awake.”
Tyvian consciously attempted to relax. The Hanim smelled of lavender, and her touch on his scalp was enough to make any man squirm, but he forced himself to take a deep breath. “I hope there has been no misunderstanding, my lady—I am not your slave.”
“Bosh.” She smirked. “A few simple enchantments and you wouldn’t even remember your name.”
“Ah, yes, but then I also wouldn’t remember the business transaction I came here to conduct.”
The Hanim ran a fingernail across Tyvian’s forehead and down his nose. Suddenly, she vanished from beneath him, and Tyvian fell back onto the cushion where she had been sitting. He leapt onto his feet, saw her standing across the room, Walid at her side, and looked back to where she had been. Had she really been there at all?
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