Dead But Once

by Auston Habershaw

  But . . . what if money could buy a little piece of home and bring it here? Hool’s ears perked up. Yes. That was it. She sprung up and slipped back on her shroud. She had to find that plant wizard woman.

  She had an idea.

  Chapter 9

  The Heir’s Day Out

  By lunch, Tyvian discovered he could walk. Dressing himself was still a bit beyond him, but with the assistance of a cane and Artus or Brana’s guiding hand, he could make his way down the stairs, eat his own food, and drink his own tea. Well, after a fashion—he still needed to wear a napkin tied around his neck like some dockworker at a fish fry, but as recoveries from the door of certain death went, things were going quite well.

  The cane, he felt, would also be a fairly useful prop over the coming days. Appearing physically unsound could be advantageous—he couldn’t very well lead an army from the back of a white charger if he couldn’t even mount a horse. He determined to cultivate the image, authentic or otherwise. With any luck, by the time another assassin came for him, they wouldn’t be expecting a healthy man as a target.

  Not that being healthy had helped that much the first time around, but nevertheless . . .

  After lunch, Tyvian got dressed in his best clothes—a burgundy doublet, a black cape of the softest wool, Chance with blade conjured and belted at his side in a jeweled scabbard, and a half dozen of his most ostentatious rings. The flarewood cane, likewise, had a diamond-encrusted lion’s-head topper and a gold tip at the opposite end. Even with his rigid, injured posture, he cut a fine figure.

  With the invitations handled, today’s plan was to meet with the Countess Ousienne of House Hadda, ruler of the Lake Country and probably the wealthiest single person in Eretheria outside of Hool herself. Myreon would accompany him as his house enchanter—another needed sign of prestige—and he would seek to ostensibly ingratiate himself into the countess’s good graces.

  The Countess Ousienne, unlike her cousins, had not directly expressed any great sympathy toward Tyvian’s plight. This of course made her the one least interested in seeing Tyvian on the throne, which made her an ideal candidate for Tyvian’s plan. By lamely attempting to suck up to Ousienne and getting slighted—something Tyvian felt was basically inevitable—he would show himself an apparent fool and make himself more attractive to the attentions of Ousienne’s primary rival, the Countess of Davram.

  Tyvian had also hoped the hour-long coach ride through city traffic to the Countess of Hadda’s estate would give him ample time to mend fences with Myreon.

  He was wrong.

  Myreon seemed determined to do nothing but look out the window. She didn’t even acknowledge his existence. The Silent Treatment—the oldest weapon in the arsenal of romantic warfare. Tyvian imagined the many Brides of Hann had used it on the very God of Men Himself during the Great Trek. Numerous times, probably.

  After about fifteen minutes, Tyvian decided he had had enough. “Myreon, there’s a stain on your sleeve. Honey, I think.”

  Myreon held up her arm to look. “Really? Where?”

  Tyvian pointed under her arm. “There.”

  She twisted her arm around. “I don’t see it anywhere. Are you sure?”

  “No,” Tyvian admitted. “I just wanted to see if you had gone mute.”

  Myreon scowled at him. “You are a giant child.”

  “At least I’m not sulking like one.”

  “I’m not sulking, Tyvian. I’m being diplomatic.”

  “Diplomatic?” Tyvian snorted. “Diplomacy usually involves discussion.”

  Myreon glared at him. “Not when there’s war brewing.”

  “That would be the most important time to discuss things, wouldn’t you think?”

  She folded her arms and looked back out the window. “I’m tired of the metaphor. I don’t want to talk to you, Tyvian, because if I do, I will probably wind up killing you.”

  Tyvian sighed. “Are you still mad about Adatha Voth? Or that I laughed at your idea that I use my position to help the poor?”

  “Both!” she snapped. “Now shut up.”

  Tyvian took a deep breath and swallowed his ready rejoinder. She was being ridiculous. One errant kiss and it was all over? After everything they’d been through? Tyvian decided to look out the window, too. Two could play the silent game. Well, at least in theory.

  The outskirts of the city gave way to rows and rows of peasant houses planted on small plots of land—usually no more than an acre. Then thatched roofs cropped up in rows and winding streets, usually clustered around a well. Then the city itself began. Eretheria was built upon several hills surrounding the mile-wide Lake Elren and the slender, ivory spire of the Empty Tower of Peregrine Palace, which dwarfed the surrounding city like a mountain in a flat plain. Though it was not as populous as Saldor, Eretheria spread itself out. The roads were wider, the houses larger, and the plots of land more generous. Rising among the roofs and domes and steeples were nearly innumerable trees—Eretheria was a city of lush gardens and plentiful shade.

  It was also just as fragmented as the rest of the country, with individual districts of the city falling under the influence of the various houses. Laketown, for instance, was under the control of House Hadda and its vassals; Davram Heights by Davram; Ayventry District by Ayventry, and so on. Each of these districts featured broad, tree-lined avenues upon which rested the finely appointed homes and city estates of the peerage. Off these avenues were narrower side streets, where the wealthier guild merchants kept their homes; off these were the winding, narrow lanes and twisting alleys of the peasant slums, where the regular people of Eretheria lived safely out of sight and out of mind.

  At one point, Tyvian peered down one of those crooked roads as the coach was about to turn. In it, an old peddler struggled with a massive cart stuck in a pothole. Hung with beat-up and secondhand pots and pans, Tyvian could see that he wasn’t selling—he was buying. People were so desperate, they were actually selling their pots and pans.

  Myreon scowled and pulled back the curtain in the coach. “I hate this miserable city.”

  Tyvian grunted. “I’m sure life in Ihyn is far more pleasant. I understand they have the flesh-eating slime problem under control now. Oh, and I bet Illin is fairly nice this time of year, once you get by the fact that half the city is rubble and it only receives sunlight for three hours a day or so.”

  Myreon glared at him. “What’s your point?”

  Tyvian shrugged and tried not to sound bitter. “Life is tough all over. These people have it better than you think.”

  Myreon kept glaring.

  House Hadda’s city estate was a sprawling piece of property in the heart of the Laketown District known as Rose Hall. The main house was aptly named—a long single hall with a domed rotunda at its center in the shape of a massive rosebud, and uncluttered with architecturally awkward wings or outbuildings. Built into the ridge of a steep hill, the servants’ quarters, kitchens, stables and other such were actually built underground beneath the main building and were accessible from without through various man-made cave entrances that opened out of Rose Hall’s south side like the holes of a rabbit warren.

  The front was mostly polished granite stairs rising up the slope of the front hill and flanked on either side by glorious bushes swarming with red and yellow roses, even though it was far too early in the spring for any such thing to be in bloom. Of course, Tyvian well knew that there were few natural phenomena that could not be brought to heel, assuming one had the money.

  They waited in their coach at the foot of these stairs while Tyvian’s note was transported up into the house by a powder-wigged servant in the red-and-yellow livery of his mistress. The countess left Myreon and him waiting a full hour before inviting them inside, which Tyvian had expected—they were arriving unannounced and his claims to an audience were primarily founded on rumors, after all. What he hadn’t expected was just how painful climbing all those stairs would be, and he found more than once that he needed Myreon’s as
sistance to steady himself. So much for the cane being mostly an act.

  At the front door, they were met by additional servants who ushered them into the central rotunda. Here, the true size of Rose Hall became evident; the dome soared a full eighty feet into the air, its peak consisting of transparent mageglass made into the pattern of a red rose that cast its light down on the very center of the floor. It was a vast space into which had been set a small collection of wicker furniture at the exact center. Tyvian and Myreon were asked to wait here, and Tyvian lowered himself onto one end of a wicker sofa, the down-stuffed cushion hugging his sore body warmly. Myreon sat in a chair across from him. “This isn’t exactly welcoming.”

  Tyvian shrugged. “She’s being cautious. Our arrival is unexpected, and she likely doesn’t quite know what to make of it yet.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “I assume you’re warding us against eavesdropping? A dome like this can have a number of very interesting acoustical properties.”

  Myreon frowned. “I know my job.”

  They were brought refreshments—tea, some cakes—and left to wait almost another entire hour. During all that time, they saw almost no one except for a spare handful of servants who were on hand to answer their needs.

  “Does anybody even live here?” Myreon adjusted her robes as though she were cold. “Why live in a place this huge if it’s going to be mostly empty?”

  “The countess has not been blessed with many children, and many of those children have already died. Two were killed by Sahand, one by Perwynnon, and a fourth was assassinated by parties unknown. This house was originally built by Ousienne’s father to house his vast family of twenty-seven children and their families.”

  Myreon looked around at the great hallways and rooms that branched off the rotunda. “What happened to them?”

  Tyvian considered just how far he should explain, but decided to settle for the concise answer. “Politics. Ousienne is a suspicious woman and relatively vain; she wields her wealth like a weapon, and her family has caught the brunt of it.” He shrugged. “And a big place like this can host a hell of a party.”

  Myreon frowned. “You seem to know a lot about her.”

  Tyvian grinned. “I had to. I robbed her once.”

  “What?” Myreon stiffened and rechecked her wards. “Tyvian!”

  Tyvian laughed and waved his hands to calm her. “She never saw me, I promise. She’ll never recognize me.” He winked at her. “Trust me.”

  Myreon folded her arms and glowered.

  At long last a servant—a rather more important-looking servant bearing the house’s warding staff—came striding across the vastness of the dome’s floor and stopped when he was halfway to Tyvian and Myreon’s little island of furniture at the center. “Ousienne Tushael, the Lady of Hadburg, Guardian of the Lakes, and Countess of Hadda.”

  Tyvian and Myreon rose as the countess appeared. She wore a formal gown supported by mageglass spokes and hoops so that it was as wide as the woman was tall. In keeping with her house’s tradition, she was wearing primarily yellow and red—colors which Tyvian felt did not suit her, though they may have in her youth. Her hair was clearly glamoured to appear as rust-red as it once had and a steady diet of cherille had kept age largely from her face, but not from her bones. She walked as though she might break. Tyvian could sympathize.

  Beside her was a man also dressed in impressive style and wearing his own rapier of mageglass. He had one of her gloved hands in his own and was assisting the countess in her trek to meet her guests. He was much younger—perhaps no more than a handful of years Tyvian’s senior. This, Tyvian guessed, was Ousienne’s current husband—her third. He couldn’t remember the man’s name, but he seriously doubted that it would come up.

  When she was a polite distance away, Tyvian bowed and Myreon curtsied. Ousienne looked down on them through a pair of crystal spectacles, probably a truthlens, looking for any illusion. A rude gesture, but the richest woman in Eretheria could get away with a certain amount of indiscretion. Tyvian certainly wasn’t going to challenge her husband over it.

  Her voice was sharp, but thinned with age. “Perhaps I ought to be the one to curtsey to you, Waymar of Eddon.”

  Tyvian rose and tried to gauge the woman’s tone. He felt he saw a twinkle in her dark little eyes, so he chuckled along with the joke. “My reputation precedes me, Your Grace. Allow me to present my house enchantress, Myreon Laybreth.”

  Ousienne nodded and then managed somehow to sit down on the other couch. Her dress consumed the entire piece of furniture so that her husband, whatever his name was, took up a position behind her, like a servant. The crazy thing was the man didn’t seem to mind in the least. Just how much money would it take for you to sell your pride, Tyvian Reldamar?

  Tyvian grunted internally. The answer was “a hell of a lot more then Ousienne of Hadda could offer.”

  Maybe that was what made him stupid.

  Ousienne was watching him carefully. “Are you feeling quite well, Master Waymar? I understand you had a dreadful encounter recently.”

  Tyvian pushed away his musings and focused on the task at hand. “My recovery may take some time, Your Grace, but I am on the whole rather well. Thank you very much for the inquiry.”

  “One of my cousins was laid low to bloodroot poisoning. Dreadful thing. No sense of honor in some people, I am afraid to say.” The countess flipped open a fan and began to use it for its intended purpose.

  Of course, the air was in no way hot, which meant the fan was enchanted. Before he could really wonder what manner of sorcery was in play, he felt the room brighten a bit and saw the fan’s colorful vanes darken and molder somewhat. With a barely audible sniff, the countess put it away.

  Myreon.

  Ousienne did not look pleased. “I am a very busy woman, Master Waymar. Thank you for your visit.”

  She held her hand out and her husband took it so that she could begin to rise. Before she was halfway up, however, Tyvian met her eyes. “One of your fellow Counts tried to have me killed two nights ago.”

  Ousienne froze. “A forceful accusation, Master Waymar. Have you proof?”

  “This assassin was expensive. A professional. Not the kind of thing an earl or viscount is likely to afford.”

  “That sounds like a no.” Ousienne moved to use her fan again, but then remembered its depleted state.

  “You don’t want a king, do you?” Tyvian grinned. His directness had Ousienne off-balance—she wasn’t used to this kind of bluntness, certainly not in her own home.

  Ousienne slowly sank back onto the couch. “I was a loyal subject of the crown before—why not again?”

  “Because kings make war with other kings, and nobody profits. Because kings seek their own ambition, and stifle those of their vassals.”

  Ousienne nodded. “A king sounds like a lovely thing to be.”

  Tyvian pointed to the livid scrapes on his face. “My experiences tell me otherwise.”

  “You are asking for standing.” Ousienne laughed lightly. Her husband joined her. “I cannot give it to you without improving your claim, and that I won’t do. You are right—Eretheria needs no king.”

  “But so long as I live, Eretheria may have one.”

  Ousienne nodded. “There will be other assassins.”

  “Then you see why I have come.” Tyvian sank to one knee. “To swear fealty.”

  Ousienne’s penciled-in eyebrows shot up. “Ah . . . clever. And if I turn you down?”

  “Davram or Ayventry may think differently. They may have greater use for me—against you.”

  “Andluss? Never.” Ousienne frowned. “But yes, I could see a Davram doing it. It isn’t beneath Velia.”

  Tyvian smiled. “Accept me, and I can renounce at the Blue Party.”

  Ousienne said nothing for a short time, but only stared at Tyvian. Then, at last, she said, “Forgive me, Master Waymar, but . . . have we met before?”

  Tyvian chose not to answer. Let her stew over it—she would eit
her realize the truth or not, but no matter what, he was planning to make an enemy here. “Do we have an understanding?”

  Ousienne smiled, but without any warmth. “I’m terribly sorry, Master Waymar, but I must be going. I have just remembered I have an engagement for which I am already unacceptably late. Please, call on us again.”

  Tyvian and Myreon rose as she did and they genuflected as appropriate to their station as she left. In a few minutes, they found themselves once again on the front steps. Their coach was being brought around even as they descended.

  Tyvian took a deep breath of the bright, spring air. “Well, it’s a start.”

  Myreon snorted. “That woman wants very much never to see you again. Did you see how she was looking at you? It was like you were selling apples at her door in your bare feet.”

  Tyvian nodded. “She smells a trap—she’s not a fool. The thing is, the trap isn’t for her. This is all to influence what happens at the salon. If we show ourselves to be an acceptable risk to House Davram, we’re in.”

  “And then what, just go back to the way things were?” Myreon shook her head.

  Tyvian didn’t rise to the bait.

  When they were halfway down the stairs, they paused beside a great fountain between the great staircases leading to the front door. Golden cherubs blew water out of golden horns into a great golden pool. Tyvian leaned against the balustrade to rest. Myreon looked at the ostentation and shook her head. “How can you stand it?”

  “What?”

  Myreon motioned to the estate that surrounded them—twelve acres in the middle of a city, grand gardens and a house large enough to keep an army. “This! This whole place! That woman!” She pointed beyond the front gates to the city that clustered around it. “People are suffering out there. You could do something about that.”

  Tyvian scowled. The ring began to throb. “I don’t want to have this conversation.”

  “Why not? Because you’re afraid of what the ring might make you do?”