Draeva snorted, and Benjmur ignored her, his question directed at Johzar. “How interested are you in gold?”
The slaver raised an eyebrow. “I can be bought, but if I’m guessing your wishes correctly, I will come at an offensively high price.”
~
Johzar limped down the hall’s front stairs and passed through the open gate, moving as fast as his old injury would allow. Avanoe’s circular streets made navigation irksome, but all he needed was an alley with a decent view of the rear entrance.
“You’re not planning to do it, are you?” Draeva’s heels pounded beside him, matching his hurried pace.
With the hall’s back gate in sight, he ducked between two shops, the gap tight enough that he could scrape grit from the opposite walls at the same time. “Planning to do what?”
“Whatever it is he wants.”
“And that might be?” He glanced at her, his shoulder leaning on a wall. “I’m not being cagy. He never said directly, and though I have an idea, I want your opinion.”
“Killing the Anvrells is one possibility. Otherwise, why mention them?”
“Part of it, possibly. He certainly implied they’re a nuisance. But he also mentioned that women shouldn’t be in charge.”
Draeva huffed. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he plans to kill his wife. He’d be the lord over half the Vales.”
“But that’s probably not it, is it?”
“Nae. He’d just kill her himself.”
Johzar chuckled. “Not everyone is comfortable cleaning blood from beneath their fingernails.”
“Could have fooled me.” She gazed into the street where shadows encroached on the remaining daylight. “Who are we waiting for, anyway?”
“Just a hunch.” He crossed his arms. “Now, I agree with you that Athren isn’t his target; she’s no obstacle to him. Remember, the task is on behalf of a mutual acquaintance.”
Draeva puzzled. “Kyzan?”
“Possibly.” Johzar looked at her and cocked an eyebrow. “Who might Kyzan want out of his way?”
The woman’s eyes popped open. “Holy fuck!”
“That’s an accurate word for it.” Johzar shrugged. “But it’s all speculation. Benjmur lays traps like a fur trader, willing to gut and skin whatever bites. And he’s a master of duplicity.”
“No wonder he threw around so much gold. Would we consider it?”
Johzar studied her. “We’re not murderers.”
A smirk played across her lips. “We murder all the time.”
“Fine.” He turned back to the view. “We’re not assassins.”
Silence invaded the alley’s shadows. Maybe he guessed wrong or watched the wrong door.
“So, are we accepting his offer?”
“I’ll think about it.” He straightened and pointed. “There.”
Across the street, a figure headed for the hall’s rear gate. A hooded cloak—despite being an odd choice for the warm season—failed to hide the man’s tattoos or the grimaces sweeping the guards’ faces.
Draeva inhaled. “Sajem.”
~8~
Once upon a time, Raze had believed King’s Fist the largest city on the Shattered Sea with its massive girding wall, turrets, and speared towers. Though impressive in its might and grandeur, the place bore the bleaker aura of a fortress. Its mission remained riveted on war, turning the children of Ezar into soldiers and processing their conquered and criminals into slaves.
He hadn’t known what to expect of Tegir, the seat of the Ezar Empire and childhood home of his mother. The city changed names with its dynasties—now Tegir, before Nagiz, and before that Auztra, an empire which had lasted two centuries. Since the shattering, other names had redrafted the land’s maps and started the years over. In time, another would.
“She’s impressive.” Terrill stood at the galley’s rail beside him. “This is the best place to view the city.”
Tegir rose from its cliffside harbor in tier after tier of colossal height. It consumed a steep-sided hill, not unlike Kestrel’s Keep, but on a far grander scale. From the slender towers and spires of the palace crowning its summit, the city cascaded downward and flowed over the smooth terrain at its feet. In the morning sun, its domed minarets and bell towers, its stacked homes and businesses, all gleamed, bathed in golden light.
“It’s stunning.” Raze leaned on the rail. “Let’s not get lost.”
“The Challenge grounds will be well marked. They’re in the southern flatlands. Are you certain you won’t compete?”
Raze chuckled. “The only weapon I ever used with any success was a drunken fist, and I got my face pummeled more often than not. I’m browsing stables when I’m not watching you and Azalus get thrashed.”
“Azalus won’t last long.” Terrill winked. “Not that he isn’t well trained.”
“By you,” Raze added. His brother traveled with them, leaving Nallea and Benjmur to follow a day later. “Azalus is competing in swords?”
“And horsemanship, an event you might try one of these days. I’m entering in swords, spear, stick, open hand, and archery.”
“Good thing we’re pleading to the Empress first.” Raze shook his head at the list. “After the games, we’ll be collecting your teeth and dragging your bruised body to the ship.”
Azalus ambled across the deck and joined them. “He’s still trying to wreck his pretty face.” The remark drew Terrill’s overly sensitive frown. He’d spent most of his youth trying to toughen up his delicate appearance. A scruffy chin and unkempt blond locks helped, but he’d forever be a beautiful man. Azalus ignored the slit eyes. “Were you aware that more competitors die from falling off their horses than from getting slapped with a wooden sword?”
“Is that true?” Raze patted his brother on the back in greeting.
“Probably not,” Azalus replied. “But it sounds right, doesn’t it?”
Raze chuckled, the banter lightening his mood, and for the first time, he looked forward to the week. “I’m glad you decided to travel with us.”
A grin lit Azalus’s face. “Couldn’t resist a little mischief. And Nallea wanted time with her father after his… unusual wedding. I’ll join them tomorrow.”
Terrill’s eyebrows bobbed. “I say we split a couple of tankards when we land this floating plank.”
“The sun’s scarcely up,” Raze said. “I’m rooting for breakfast.”
“That too.” Terrill stretched and patted his belly. “I’m starving.”
Raze stepped out of the way of the crew as they prepared the ship to glide between the wooden piers that strutted into the sea. He scooped up his rucksack of gear, his single ensemble of finer attire tucked in Terrill’s trunk.
Azalus dispatched his belongings to the lavish hillside quarters reserved by Benjmur. A less dignified porter hoisted Terrill’s trunk onto a muscled shoulder, and with a silver chit in his pocket, set off for The Flask and Fishes, an inn boasting vacancies despite the influx of visitors.
Tegir’s streets snaked and circled much like those of Kestrel, their paths dictated by the contours of the land. The city brimmed with people, a quarter of them with typical Ezarine features—tall in stature, pale skin contrasting with their ebony hair, and eyes like amethysts. Well over half shared characteristics with other races, and he fit into this group with his brown locks and lean build. He drew up his cowl against the burning sunlight and blended into the mass of humanity with ease.
The rest of those crowding the main thoroughfares were visitors to the city. They haggled with vendors, sought directions, or wandered in circles. Draped with weapons, they clanked and clinked. They came in a medley of shapes, sizes, colors, and languages. Suddenly the world expanded, a vaster, more diverse place than Raze ever imagined. Despite the assertion that the Vales pinpointed the hub of civilization, they lay at the fringe of a much larger world, puny kingdoms their powerful neighbor had swallowed with ease.
The tavern lay north, a long jaunt from the game fields, and it cozi
ed up to a fishery, which accounted for the available quarters. The place stank enough to water Raze’s eyes.
“What do you say we board elsewhere?” Terrill grimaced at the reek as if he teetered on the verge of passing out.
“Sound good to me,” Raze headed for the door.
They found new quarters at The Owl’s Cauldron, which stank like a tavern should—of old ale, grease, and sweat. It lay a third of the way up the city’s height and therefore cost three times the silver. Without the slightest flinch, Terrill flipped the chits to the proprietor and arranged for his trunk’s delivery. Raze balked at the cost, but his father had provided them with a purse for their expenses, and he was loath to face the Empress reeking like sun-ripened fish.
~9~
Slaves packed the galley’s lower decks, jammed onto rowing benches with their spindly oars. Interior quarters sweltered, and the topside promenade hosted all those who refused to tolerate the noise, smell, and motion below. Governor Kyzan had complained of sickness and commandeered the captain’s dining room, insisting upon open windows, solitude, and wine.
Benjmur knocked on the door and entered upon a feeble reply of, “Go away.” Two Ezari guards stationed at the entry followed him in.
“Lord Kyzan.” Benjmur bowed.
“Can’t this wait?” Kyzan had draped himself across three chairs in a makeshift settee. He pressed a wet cloth to his forehead and sipped from a goblet. A redheaded servant with a freckled face stood at the rear wall, staring straight ahead with remarkable concentration.
“I am distressed by your discomfort,” Benjmur said. “But it is imperative that we speak about the audience with your esteemed sister before arriving in Tegir.”
“My sister.” Kyzan sighed. “How did you convince me to undertake this abhorrent trip?”
“We share a number of goals which demand our cooperation.”
“You’re aware I’m saddled with two sisters.” Kyzan eyed him.
“Ai, my lord. May I sit?” When the governor waved, Benjmur pulled up a chair. “I’m concerned about the Anvrells. I had expected Lord Rydan to make the journey, but it appears that Azalus travels with his elder brother instead. Raze is hotheaded and rebellious. I fear they may be dangerous.”
Kyzan’s chin drew back. “What are you chattering about?”
“My lord.” Benjmur eased out a patient breath. “I realize the Anvrells are your cousins, but I’m concerned for your sister’s safety. I can’t help wondering if this audience regarding slavers isn’t a ploy to get close to her.”
“Ah.” Kyzan’s eyes widened in understanding before turning grave. He glanced at the guards and the servant. “I share your concerns. They’ve never been loyal to the empire, have they?”
“They’re certain your father arranged for the death of their mother. No amount of reason sways them from their assumption. Azalus has confided such opinions to my daughter, and his brother is convinced of it. I hate to betray Nallea’s confidences and her affection for her husband’s family, but I saw no option but to relay my deep concern.”
“Is your daughter part of the plot?”
Benjmur stiffened, curbing his desire to slap the imbecile. “Of course not! She is a victim as much as you or I. Naturally, this is all speculation. I have suggested previously that you forewarn the Empress and her advisors. With Raze’s presence, I urge you once again to take that precaution.”
“Very well.” Kyzan opened his mouth and yawned. “I shall counsel my sister, but it’s unlikely she’ll listen. She’s a woman after all.”
~
Raze peered out the window of the hired carriage bearing him up the steep road. He glanced at Terrill, the two of them in Kestrel’s deep emerald. His surcoat displayed the winged crest of the province, embroidered with thread of gold. He’d polished his boots and wore ceremonial armor girding forearms and calves, a borrowed jewel-encrusted dagger displayed at his hip.
The Tegir palace gazed down upon the city like a heron might view a school of silver fish. A single elegant tower reached for the sky, rising from a core of halls and casting a shadow over the Temple of Souls at its rear.
The ride saved them from melting in the heat that poured in torrents from the searing midsummer sun. Not only would the coiling road have required hours to walk, but the leisurely ride offered glorious views of the broken islands standing like stalwart sentinels along the shore, King’s Fist a hazy mountain in the distance.
At the city’s peak, soldiers ushered them into an anteroom where Benjmur, Azalus, and Nallea awaited them. Raze smiled at the green swags of Nallea’s dress, her blond hair swept up into a hive of curls. Excitement brightened her face. Benjmur stood alone in the deep garnet of Avanoe, stiff lipped, eyes noting the overabundance of Kestrel silk. Had he expected Nallea to don red as well?
“Ah,” Benjmur smiled. “We are all present.” He addressed their escort, “At the Empress’s convenience.”
They exchanged pleasantries, their voices hollow in the vaulted space. He shook his nervousness from his arms, absorbing the aura of the stone walls that retained a comfortable coolness despite the Ezarine heat. Soft touches countered the hard seams of marbled block. Goblets of pink juice rested beside a bowl of exotic fruits, and tapestries adorned the walls, needled with scenes of women fishing from flat boats.
Finally, a pair of guards led them into the throne room, an imposing space with arched windows and white marble walls. A score of colorful banners hung from the ceiling, including Kestrel’s. Were they all the standards of vassal lands?
On a dais at the room’s far end, an elegant throne carved of ravenwood rose twice the height of a man, fanning upward and outward into the twisted branches of a tree. As Raze and his company approached the throne, he inhaled a stunned breath. The seat wasn’t carved at all but crafted from the actual base of a tree. And what had looked from afar like branches were the tree’s black roots.
At Benjmur’s gesture, they bent at the waist, remaining so until Ezalion spoke. “My brother informs me that you bear a complaint.”
“We bring greetings from the Vales.” Benjmur straightened and introduced each of the guests.
Raze stared at the Empress, his cousin—a disorienting thought. The handsome woman neared forty years but seemed ageless. Her skin was powdered to a ghostly white, her straight black tresses oiled and woven with charms. She wore a lacy bodice of silver appliques and a skirt of flowing Ezarine indigo like a moonlit sea. The fabric shimmered, an elegant contrast to her hair and skin.
Her siblings flanked her. Kyzan lounged in a seat below and to her left, Danzell in a mirrored placement to her right, raven hair cropped above her ears, a hint of a smile on her lips. A short sword with a plain quillon balanced on its tip, propped against her knee, and unlike her sister and brother, she flouted the royal attire, garbed in a hip-length vest, sashed in indigo, her bloomers tucked into the tops of her boots.
Benjmur finished the introductions. “My dear wife, Athren of Ildus, sends her regrets. She is unwell and incapable of traveling.”
“A swallower of copious souls.” Ezalion’s half-lidded eyes fixed on him, irises glittering like twin fires.
“She grieves the loss of her son and sole heir,” Benjmur explained. “Her sorrow has proved inconsolable.”
“I was told he is merely missing.”
Benjmur blinked and nodded. “You were not misled. We simply fear the worst. He was a dutiful son.”
“And now you are Lord of Avanoe and Ildus?”
“Ildus to the extent that Athren needs my support.”
“You were kind to wed her. I imagine she will repay you with her province.” The Empress turned to Azalus. “Your father is also unwell.”
Azalus bowed. “He suffered an arrow to the lung on my wedding day and has not yet recovered. I humbly stand in his stead.”
“And you are wed to Nallea Demiris. The Demiris reach stretches from the north all the way to the borders of Celes.”
“Forgive me, Em
press,” Nallea spoke up. “I’ve taken my husband’s name, and I serve his city. I am Nallea Anvrell.”
Ezalion smiled. “In Ezar, Nallea, women do not assume their husband’s names with any greater frequency than men adopt the names of their wives. Women rule here and are as capable as men, if not more so. Do not surrender your independence to father or husband. Choose your path, cousin. Walk side by side if your soul wills it, but do not follow.”
“Thank you for the reminder, Empress.” Nallea beamed.
“And you, Lord Raze? Why would a horse breeder who eschews the structures of power present himself to the Ezari Empress?”
Raze bowed to the woman, a far more formidable force than he had expected. She was a person of acute intelligence, well informed, and one not easily manipulated or coerced. Her power filled every inch of the elaborate seat. In less than a heartbeat, she’d obtained control of the conversation and asserted her authority over her guests. “I am a horse breeder, Empress. I travel on behalf of my father and Kestrel but also my modest home. The freeholds bear a stake in the matter we bring before you no less than the nobles and, perhaps, more so.”
“And Lord Juntis?” Her attention returned to Benjmur.
“Unable to attend for the very reason we are here. To discuss the actions of slavers in the Vales.” Benjmur explained the concerns, the kidnappings and murders, the abduction of Nallea, the attempted assassination of Lord Rydan, all facets of a blatant disregard for the spirit of the law, if not for the law itself. Danzell observed the conversation like a hawk scouring a field for hapless mice, while Kyzan fidgeted and huffed his boredom.
Benjmur clasped his hands behind his back. “Slavers are destabilizing the peace in your provinces, and we fear an escalation of violence. Some citizens blame Ezari rule.”
“Do you blame my rule?” Ezalion challenged.
“Not at all,” Benjmur replied. “To the contrary, we seek your assistance.”
Her gaze glided over them. “And your suggestions?”
Legacy of Souls (The Shattered Sea Book 2) Page 5