The Hanim chuckled softly, clearly amused. “That is right—illusion, Mr. Reldamar. A demonstration of my power, if you will, so you will know—or not know, if you follow my meaning—what you are dealing with if you seek to swindle me.” The Hanim’s face dropped the smile and gazed at him with deadly seriousness.
Tyvian smiled. “Fortunately, I have neither the desire nor motivation to do so, milady. I simply wish to make a trade.”
“You have a staff in your possession.”
“If by ‘staff’ you mean the colloquial term for mage, then yes, I have. What’s more, she is a Mage Defender.”
“Such a woman is worth a lot of gold, Mr. Reldamar, but not just to me. You could have easily sold her to some pretty criminal organization. Why go to all the trouble?”
It was Tyvian’s turn to be deadly serious. “Because I am not interested in gold. I want a favor.”
The Hanim grinned. “The Verisi, diCarlo, seems to think it is money.”
“As I said, milady, I am not swindling you.”
“Favors can be more expensive than money. You might do better to behave as your friend thinks you ought to.”
“With respect, Hanim, I don’t need money.”
“What is your favor, then?” She fished a sardine from a tray Walid had produced and ate it with a single rapid bite. Tyvian tried not to stare at her lips.
Having gotten to his feet, he came closer, stopping little more than an arm’s length from the Kalsaari noblewoman. “I need to meet with an Artificer.”
She smirked. “The Artificers do not meet with Westerners, and certainly not with thieves of rare magical goods such as yourself.”
Tyvian returned the smirk. “I saw a pair of them meeting with my former partner this very evening.”
The Hanim’s eyes narrowed. “Call me a liar and I’ll have your tongue.”
“I am merely ilLumenating Your Grace to unforeseen possibilities. Artificers, it seems, may meet with Westerners, if the price is right.”
“What do I offer them?”
Tyvian held up his right hand. “This.”
The Hanim’s gaze snapped to the Iron Ring immediately. She leaned in closer, blinking. “What is it?”
Why don’t you tell me? Tyvian wanted to ask, but held his tongue. The Hanim clearly recognized the ring but didn’t wish to let on. That was fine by him. He cleared his throat. “An inconvenient artifact I need removed, and will not trust to any bumbling Freegate talismancer. It is quite sophisticated, I assure you.”
The Hanim reached out and took Tyvian’s hand, pulling it closer to her and turning it over. Walid dangled a piece of illumite over her for additional light. “Have you tried antispell?” she asked.
“Not without knowing what will happen. It is bound to my hand, and I don’t want it stuck there.”
“You could simply cut the finger off,” the Hanim said, running her fingers over the smooth edges of the ring.
Tyvian grimaced. “I happen to like that finger.”
She smiled at him. “Yet you risk your entire body by meeting with me.”
“If I am dead, I don’t need fingers. While living, I would prefer to keep all of them. Can you do what I ask?”
The Hanim pulled Tyvian closer by his hand, until his knuckles rested against her chest. Her fingers stroked his forearm in a way Tyvian thought beyond the bounds of professional decorum. “What does it do, this ring? Why do you hate it so much?”
He met the golden gaze of the Kalsaari noblewoman and did his best to act as though his body was molested by dangerous enchantresses on a regular basis and found the whole affair quite boring. “Did I say I hated it, milady?”
“I can see it in your eyes. When you speak of it, your hatred flares up like fuel thrown on a distant fire. Why?”
Tyvian permitted himself to smirk. “Perhaps I’ll tell you, but I only trade secrets for secrets.”
The Hanim released his hand. “What do you want to know?”
“You do not, by any chance, have a professional relationship with Banric Sahand, have you?”
The Hanim sighed dramatically, as though she were on a stage and wanted the back rows to hear her. “A slight one. Sahand was once an ally of my family—during the wars—but not since then. At the moment, his vassals have expressed an interest in purchasing animals from my menagerie—the wilder and more frightening, the better. I do not know why.”
Tyvian nodded. “Logical enough.” To himself, he added, Even though you’re obviously lying.
“And now your turn for secrets. What does the ring do?”
“I’d rather not say,” Tyvian said.
The Hanim hissed like a cat. “Perfidious wretch! Is this how you do business?”
“Come now, milady, do you really think I am so stupid as to fall for the whole ‘information trade’ nonsense. It’s among the oldest swindles in the book. What you told me was at least half a lie, and you would never believe what I told you either. Let’s at least be frank with one another, shall we?”
The Hanim assumed a stately posture. “We will consider your offer and contact you tomorrow should it be possible.”
Tyvian nodded. “I look forward to seeing you again, Hanim.”
She snorted softly. “Still you do not bow.”
“Don’t take it personally,” he said. “I’ve spent my life snubbing those with power, no matter how beautiful they are.”
“Walid,” the Hanim said, “put him out.”
Walid clapped his hands and the floor fell away from beneath Tyvian’s feet. He fell through the dark, cursing Kalsaari sorcery the whole way down, until the abyss through which he fell became a flume full of foul-smelling water and trash. It wound and dipped through some dark system of tunnels and at last ejected him with a whoosh into a gutter. He landed flat on his back, knocking the wind out of him and covering him with freezing muck.
Pulling himself out of the stink and grime, Tyvian wheezed until his lungs remembered how to breathe air, then spent several moments cursing the Hanim. “The wretched witch could have at least tossed me out a side door.”
His clothes were a complete loss. Even if he had them magically cleaned, they would never quite be the same. He tossed his jacket in the gutter and used his scarf to wipe off the larger patches of refuse and slime from his breeches and shirt. For all his aggravation, however, he had to admit that the loss of a suit of clothes was a small price to pay for the deal he had secured.
Tyvian had complete confidence that the Hanim would accept his offer, because he knew that what he’d suggested was of immeasurable worth to Theliara and the Kalsaari Empire as a whole. A Mage Defender like Myreon was a walking secret weapon, trained in doctrines and disciplines the Kalsaaris would kill to know. For ages the Arcanostrum of Saldor had trained the world’s finest magi, bar none, and the Kalsaaris knew it. But the presence of sorcery among the nobles in Kalsaar spoke less to their talent than to their tolerance of it. The overuse of magical power was still somewhat taboo in the nations of the West, and all magi were trained to use only the barest fraction of their power in any given situation. In those rare instances when they did use the sum total of their arts to tackle a problem, the very fabric of the earth shook. Tyvian knew this better than most: his mother, Lyrelle Reldamar, was one of the most powerful sorcerers alive, and when she worked a spell, the world trembled.
Myreon Alafarr was, of course, not anything close to Lyrelle. Tyvian knew that, Myreon knew that, but the Kalsaaris likely did not. Their magic was focused upon invocation—the most ephemeral discipline of sorcery, which created effects and simulations that lacked real substance. Myreon’s skill in augury, enchantment, and transmutation would no doubt thrill them. Indeed, what enchantment, transmutation, and even conjuration the Kalsaaris had devised were all based on the confessions and interrogations of Western magi they had captu
red or who had defected to them over the years.
The exceptions to all of this were the Artificers. A secretive monastic order that devoted itself to a mixture of the Low and High Arts, they were the creators of magical artifacts beyond compare. It was said that their skill exceeded even those of the magi of the Arcanostrum or the Builders of Eretheria. Tyvian knew that if he could get them to take a look at the ring, not only could they likely remove it, but there was also a distinct chance they could tell him where and how it was made.
Of course, his deal with the Hanim would not put him directly closer to meeting with an Artificer. For as much as Tyvian thought the Hanim would accept his deal, he was twice as confident that she would double-cross him at her first opportunity. Not only was deception part of her nature, but he had gone out of his way to insult her pride this evening, and he knew she couldn’t accept that without getting some kind of satisfaction for that injury at his expense. Betrayal seemed the easiest, most straightforward option.
The deal with the Hanim was one facet of a plot that, if it worked, would serve to relieve him of the ring, attain his vengeance on Hendrieux, fulfill his “deal” with Hool the gnoll and get the Defenders off of his back for a long, long time. His plot had been growing in complexity with every passing day, but with Hendrieux’s fortuitous appearance at the party this evening, things just got a little bit simpler. Of course, he had to hurry.
Tyvian ran around the periphery of the Hanim’s palace until he was reasonably certain he had catalogued all the visible exits. Doing a little mental geography, he calculated the most obvious route one would take from the palace to the Blocks, and placed himself in an alley a quarter mile distant that gave him a good view of the area. The problem, however, would be how to make a move on Hendrieux’s party without getting killed.
“Hmmmm . . .” he said, trying to beat warmth into his arms. “If only I had a sword with me.”
It was then that Hacklar Jaevis jumped from the rooftops onto Tyvian’s back.
CHAPTER 3
JUST ANOTHER STREET FIGHT
The first thing that happened was Jaevis broke Tyvian’s nose by slamming him into the wall of the alley. Then came a swift kick in the guts, which sent Tyvian’s breath whistling through his teeth. Jaevis then picked the smuggler up like a sack of flour and threw him on the ground. All of this transpired in approximately two and a half seconds.
The alley spun in the darkness. Tyvian’s nose was throbbing and clogged with what he guessed was a lot of blood; he couldn’t breathe, see, or hear anything over the pounding in his ears and the white hot pain in his face. He felt Jaevis plant a knee on his breastbone, pinning him in place, and then Tyvian’s world exploded again as the bounty hunter began to pound his head with his fists as though it were a lump of dough on a baker’s counter. Dimly, Tyvian could hear the Illini muttering a single word, over and over: “Vendetta.”
After the third punch in the face, Tyvian managed to pull his knee to his chest and draw the dagger from his boot. Jaevis was so focused on pounding Tyvian’s head flat as a coin that he very nearly didn’t notice the flash of steel until it was too late. As it was, the Illini twisted at the last moment so the point of the dagger pierced his arm rather than his heart. Jaevis snarled with a mixture of rage and pain, clutching at the deep wound with his free hand and leaping up before Tyvian could stick him again.
Unpinned, Tyvian rolled away and into the street, which was really more stairs than street, and bounced down several icy stone steps before he managed to stop himself. Jaevis charged after him, his arm pumping blood but his mind apparently too filled with anger to care. Tyvian tried to rise with the aid of a lamppost, but the bounty hunter kicked him in the chest and sent him sprawling onto his back and tumbling down another half-dozen unforgiving steps. Air wheezing into his lungs, blood dripping into his mouth, Tyvian pointed his dagger at Jaevis to keep himself from being tackled again.
He didn’t kill me—he needs me alive.
Jaevis drew one of his long, curved sabers with his good arm and adjusted his cloak. “Not so full of jokes now, eh?”
Tyvian, trying not to fall down any more stairs, scuttled away from him until he had room to pull himself into a crouch. “You’re early, Jaevis.”
The bounty hunter advanced slowly, leaving drops of blood in his wake. “You were not expecting Jaevis. Jaevis was expecting you.”
Tyvian retreated, wracking his brain for a plan. “Must we debate semantics? I mean, let’s be honest, you barely speak Trade. Shouldn’t you just defer to me in linguistic matters?”
Jaevis grunted. “Still with jokes. I will cut out tongue, Reldamar.”
Dagger against saber was no contest, even if Jaevis was short an arm. Tyvian had stabbed him deep, but the wound wasn’t fatal. Thanks to the studded leathers Jaevis wore on his torso, the odds of getting a fatal blow in there were extremely slim. There was only one way out of this.
“Well, good-bye, then!”
Tyvian turned tail and ran.
Jaevis roared and pursued.
The bounty hunter was swift, and Tyvian had just gotten his face pounded in for a few moments, so his balance wasn’t perfect; his flight was more of a controlled fall down the steep, stair-lined street. There was little doubt in his mind that he would be caught in a matter of seconds. Fortunately, a matter of seconds was all he needed.
Tyvian made a sharp right turn and ran, full bore, into the arms of two of Hendrieux’s men. He made a show of struggling, but in all honesty he could not have been happier to see them. They had just come from the Hanim’s party, as Tyvian had anticipated, and their group included eight soldiers in livery, as before, as well as the hulking Gallo, the fur-caped Hendrieux, and two men in rust-red robes and hoods. Artificers, I presume. Tyvian tried not to smile.
“Look what we ’ave ’ere!” One of the Dellorans held a tiny bead of illumite close to Tyvian’s face. In the pale light, Tyvian could see the man had a black eye—great, it was the guard from the party. “It’s Tyvian bleedin’ Reldamar, and he’s got his fine clothes all mussed.”
Tyvian nodded. “Well identified, sir—and with only one eye, too! Hendrieux should give you a raise.”
The man kneed Tyvian in the groin, which, he had to admit, was fair enough. He fell to his knees, nauseous with pain, but the two Dellorans hoisted him back up.
Hendrieux’s face split into a genuine smile. “Tyvian! Now, what has you running scared, hmmm?”
Tyvian heard the cock of a crossbow and, between gasps of agony, managed to make introductions. “Gentlemen . . . I . . . give you . . . Hacklar Jaevis.”
It turned out that Jaevis didn’t have a crossbow, but rather a close relative. It was a hurlant—a crossbow-like device designed to throw spheres rather than bolts—and this hurlant was loaded with a smooth, fist-sized stone that popped and sizzled in the cool night air. “You give me Reldamar now.”
The Dellorans all drew their swords; Gallo hefted his heavy maul. Hendrieux moved so he could leap behind Gallo, should it become necessary, and smiled. “Now now, friend—we’ve no love for this wretch, do we? We were just about to slit his throat ourselves.”
“I take him alive.” Jaevis’s aim with the hurlant never wavered from Gallo’s massive form. “I take him now.”
“There are ten of us and one of you.” Hendrieux said. “I don’t think you are in a position to give orders.”
Jaevis nodded at his weapon. “Thunder-orb gives me position. Give Reldamar now.”
“One thunder-orb won’t kill us all, Mr. Jaevis. Let’s be reasonable—I have personal business with Mr. Reldamar here that will end in his death. You’re a bounty hunter, aren’t you? Why don’t I pay whatever you’re being paid plus, say, ten percent, and we call it even, hmmmm?”
Tyvian saw an opportunity to jump in. “He’s bluffing, Jaevis. He’s a coward—he’s soiling
his breeches at the thought of you firing that thunder-orb at him.”
Hendrieux gave Tyvian a withering glance. “I am not bluffing.”
“That’s exactly what you’d say if you were bluffing.”
Black Eye gave Tyvian an ear-boxing that sent his head spinning. He let himself fall to the ground and pretended to whimper.
“Enough talk!” Jaevis’s finger trembled over the trigger. “Back away!”
Hendrieux, his face a bit paler than before, began to back up. “Very well, very well—no need to—”
Gallo charged, heavy maul held high. He made no cry, bellowed no challenge—he was like a war machine with its switch thrown, sudden and inexorable. The next few seconds were complete mayhem. Jaevis fired at Gallo, and the magical stone detonated on the huge man’s breastplate with thunderclap force, blowing everyone off their feet. Everyone, that was, besides Tyvian, who had sensibly gotten down earlier. The heat and crackling energy of the blast was still coursing through Tyvian’s body; he was deafened by the sound, disoriented by the concussion. Still, he had the wherewithal to sit up.
Gallo, impossibly, wasn’t dead. He had lost his maul and the loose wool cape he had draped over his shoulders, and his armor smoked and crackled like something stuffed in a furnace, but he stood up without so much as flinching. He backhanded Jaevis as the bounty hunter tried to rise, spinning the Illini around and knocking him back over. Tyvian grinned at this, but stopped grinning when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hendrieux coming at him with a drawn sword. Thinking quickly, Tyvian scooped a handful of gravel from the road and hurled it at Hendrieux’s eyes. The Akrallian flinched, buying Tyvian enough time to stand up and snatch a sword from one of the dazed Dellorans.
The Dellorans—the ones not blown to pieces by the thunder-orb, anyway—were getting up, too. Sounds were coming back to Tyvian’s ears; they were fuzzy and indistinct, but they were definitely sounds. He took heart that, at the very least, he wasn’t deaf.
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