The Eyes of a Doll (The World of Shijuren Book 2)

by Howell, Rob

  Chapter 21

  Early Afternoon, 14 Blommemoanne, 1712 MG

  The gates of Lezh stood open, though guarded, when we crested the last hill.

  The previous night, Sebastijan had still worried that we might be ambushed, so he had led us on foot through the dark. When sun arose, he pushed us through to our destination.

  I ached all over, not simply where the guardian’s pointed arm had penetrated. The bandage itched under the bloody tunic and dented scale armor.

  “Made it,” I yawned.

  “Yes, we’re safe now.”

  I chuckled at Sebastijan’s sarcasm. “How long to the Westering Winds?”

  “From here? An hour or so.”

  I nodded and followed his lead. The guards at the gate barely paid attention to us as we entered. I shook my head.

  “Bothers your sense of rightness, eh?”

  “Yes, Sebastijan, it does. Guards should guard.”

  “Nobody’s ever attacked Lezh from landward.”

  “Then that’s how I’d attack them.”

  He chuckled. “And I might do the same as well, but we’re not leading an army so we’re no threat to them. We’re also not leading a caravan, so we’ll provide no tolls.”

  “What if we were smuggling something?”

  “They’re paid to ignore that by the kraljevics here. They’ve already gotten their cut.”

  “Just when I thought I’d gotten used to Achrida.”

  Sebastijan chuckled. “The line between zupan and kraljevic is blurred here. Ylli is definitely a kraljevic, but he runs one of the zupans like the zupans run the governor in Achrida.”

  “Meaning the governor here is truly powerless.”

  “Actually, no.” He chuckled as we wove through the streets, ignored by all but the hawkers.

  “What power does the governor have?”

  “Lezh and Lezhum are different than Dassaretum. It’s a much more important city strategically, at least when thinking of defending the Empire.”

  “Ah, it’s a coastal town and must be ready to defend itself.”

  “Yes. Also, it’s a major Imperial port.”

  “The Emperor puts energetic governors here and weak ones in Achrida.”

  “Exactly.”

  I thought for a moment. “And because the Dassaretae and the Enchelei have often been so powerful, Lezhum has to be strong enough to counter them and keep the rivalry going.”

  “Welcome to the Empire, my friend.”

  I shook my head. We crested a hill, and I glimpsed the Middle Sea shining between buildings.

  “You’ll want to go over there, up at the top of the hill.”

  I saw a tower looming over the harbor.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s the tower of Emperor Heraclius. He built it there to see the sun set on the Empire.”

  I looked at him strangely.

  “He was an odd man, and an odd Emperor. He sat in that tower for years, watching the sun go into the sea.”

  “How did the Empire continue?”

  “The Empire is run by its governors and officials. People like Kapric and Zvono. Often, they just keep doing their jobs no matter who reigns.”

  “Did the government move here? What happened to the Great City?”

  “Some of his courtiers moved here, but most just stayed where they were. Couriers were dispatched daily back and forth.”

  “Inconvenient.”

  “Emperors often are.”

  I chuckled.

  “At least this one made sure his successors would have his gift. His tower is, indeed, a fantastic place to watch the sun set. Travelers come from leagues around.”

  All of the sudden, my memories clicked. “Bedarth came here once.”

  “Bedarth? Your tutor?”

  “Yes, when he was young. He told me of the glittering line of the sun on the distant sea pointing back at him, red and proud and stern.”

  “Why was he in the Empire?”

  “I think he was here to visit Veikko.”

  “Veikko?”

  “A Reader he corresponded with.”

  As I answered, Sebastijan turned onto a street that led along a ridge overlooking Lezh. The Westering Winds sat in an odd little dell, and the reason for its name became immediately obvious. A continuous zephyr carrying west from land to sea cooled the street before it.

  “Sebastijan! You here to pay for last time?”

  Sebastijan wryly smiled as a short but impressively pudgy man yelled from the doorway.

  “Dardan. It’s good to see you.”

  He dismounted. I followed suit, with a meaningful eye to remind Deor not to bite. He disdainfully shook his head.

  “Rooms, then?”

  Sebastijan nodded.

  “For you and the Sevener?”

  He nodded again.

  “Does the Sevener speak a proper language?”

  “Ask him yourself.”

  “DO YOU UNDERSTAND IMPERIAL?” Before I could muster a response to his shout, he grumbled at Sebastijan, “So you’ve brought an outlander barbarian to dirty up my inn. That’ll be costing you extra.”

  In the most precise Imperial I could manage, I finally answered. “Deor, if you want to bite this one, I don’t think I’ll mind after all.”

  Deor nipped at Dardan’s shoulder. Not hard, but enough.

  “You were saying about a barbarian?”

  I used all my willpower to say that with a straight face. Sebastijan did not even try.

  “I think he’ll keep the place clean enough.”

  “But that demon horse,” grumbled Dardan.

  I laughed. “He’s that, alright, but he’s also my friend. I think I can convince him not to tear you limb from limb.”

  I looked at Deor. “If he stops calling me a barbarian and you a demon, will you please not bite him?”

  Deor neighed and shook his head.

  “If he does that and he gives you a few treats?”

  He snorted and bobbed his head up and down.

  I turned back to Dardan.

  “There you are. Don’t call me a barbarian, or him a demon, and give him treats. He likes apples.”

  The zephyr carried Sebastijan’s booming laughter out to sea, probably annoying fishes and stranger creatures. I started laughing myself, and soon enough Dardan joined us.

  “Come, let’s get you settled.”

  Before we could even see the stable on the far side of the inn Dardan was yelling for apples. The stablekeepers of the Westering Winds did not tend Deor as lovingly as Eirik did, but they had apples. He chomped happily as settled him in a clean stall.

  We followed Dardan up to two adjoining rooms. Each had a clean pallet and a crude table. A small opening led from room to room, allowing the wind to flow through and keep the air fresh and cool, even though the rooms had no windows. Not the Faerie, but I had certainly spent nights in worse.

  As we deposited our belongings, Dardan motioned Sebastijan into my room.

  “The zupan warned me to expect you.”

  I nodded.

  “Though these rooms don’t look like much, they were lined with protective symbols as we built the Westie. No doubt a powerful enough mage can break the warding, but these rooms will provide you much protection.”

  I nodded appreciatively.

  “The zupan warned us that you might have someone wanting to prevent you from whatever you plan to do. We’ll protect you while you’re here. He did not tell what that might be.”

  “Because he does not know. In fact, he left so he could remain blissfully ignorant.”

  “Or at least plausibly,” snorted Sebastijan.

  Dardan nodded. “Of course. Fortunately, all of the servants and workers here are Dassaretae. They’ll help as they can. Let us know.”

  “You’ll tell Vukasin everything, of course.”

  “Of course, we’re his family and friends.”

  I nodded. I would certainly get no better. I motioned at Sebastija
n.

  “And I take it from your greeting that you’ll not stab this Enchelei in the night? At least until I’m done with him?”

  “He’s survived staying here before.”

  Sebastijan shook his head. “I need wine.”

  Dardan led us to the taproom and provided us with a hearty, bitter wine that Sebastijan enjoyed and I merely sipped. The two of them refreshed their memories of each other while I relaxed.

  The Westie, as everyone seemed to call it, provided a much more secure bastion than I could have hoped for. Nevertheless, I wondered how much Vukasin’s power could shield me in Lezh, and also how much power the Imperial Governor of Lezh might wield.

  Eventually Dardan let us be.

  “Tomorrow we find Timoshenko?”

  He nodded. “I know where his shop is.”

  “Good.”

  He looked at me. “You’re nervous?”

  “Not exactly. I’m worried about Honker, Ragnar, and the families. I’m worried about each day we’re gone.”

  “I understand, but remember that Vukasin and Vesela are upset. Whatever else they might have thought prior to the governor ignoring them, they are on your side for now.”

  “For now.”

  “Now is enough.”

  “True,” I agreed.

  Sebastijan shrugged. “And maybe you don’t have to worry about the krals either. Certainly not Gibroz, and we left Katarina on as good of terms as we could hope for.”

  I chuckled. “That won’t matter for Katarina if she thinks something will be fun.”

  “Still.”

  I nodded. “Still.”

  “So, whoever is attacking you isn’t likely to be one of the great controlling powers of Achrida.”

  “Yes, but that means whoever’s attacking is someone from the shadows. I’ve been dwelling on that ever since I realized Andreas was paying back a favor. If it’s not a zupan or a kraljevic, then what other Achridan could it be?”

  “I’ve been wondering the same thing. I don’t have an answer for you.”

  I sighed.

  “Still, your friends will keep Honker and Ragnar safe. I’ll bet Piri and the Pathfinders are eating there regularly. Same for Svetislav and the Lakewardens. And don’t forget my men.”

  “I just hate relying on others when it’s my responsibility.”

  Sebastijan just chuckled.

  Chapter 22

  Morning, 15 Blommemoanne, 1712 MG

  I had expected my eyes to adjust to the gloom of an interior room when we walked into Timoshenko’s workshop from the sunny morning. Instead, a miniature sun assaulted our eyes as we entered.

  As my eyes reacted, I realized that the small sun was merely a large oil lamp set amongst mirrors that amplified and reflected its light. Immediately below the light, a table with various delicate tools sat before a tall man with lanky, blond hair balding on top and bound in a tail in the back.

  He looked up, dropping a glass from one peering eye to rest on his chest where its cord held it.

  “May I help you?”

  I had brought my three most beautiful armrings, one partially inlaid with garnets, another inscribed with knotwork designs, and the third twisted and arranged with flashing amethysts on its ends. I held them out to him.

  “I would like to know what you think of these.”

  He set them on his table in the light. He replaced the glass into his eye with automatic movements. Leaning over the table he examined every inch of each.

  “Cunning,” he muttered to himself. “Not particularly elaborate, but matches the northern style well. Could be more delicate, but the lines on the design were well done.”

  He paused and glanced up to me. “Who did the cloisonné?”

  “I don’t know. My lord gave that to me and I never asked where he got it. Someone from Middlemarch, I’d guess.”

  “Middlemarch?”

  “One of the Seven Kingdoms.”

  He returned his attention to the armring for a while, mumbling as he looked.

  “Why did your lord give this to you?”

  “I killed four raiders who had gotten loose in a farmstead.”

  He peered at me briefly. “Ah, yes, now I remember your barbarous traditions.”

  He turned back to the rings, focusing on the amethysts. “Lovely amethysts. Svellheimish, I’d guess.”

  I shrugged.

  “You have no idea what you have here, do you?”

  “Gifts of ring-givers.”

  He sighed. “They probably had no real idea either.”

  He got out a soft cloth, opened a small pot, dipped the cloth into the thick, white paste, and started polishing my rings.

  “I presume you are seeking to sell these?”

  “In a sense.”

  He looked up from his polishing. “Please explain.”

  “I don’t really want to sell these. As I said, they were given to me.”

  He sniffed.

  “Then why did you show them to me?”

  “Are they valuable?”

  “Reasonably. The gold feels like a truer alloy. The amethysts are very nice. The cloisonné and designs are not rudimentary and in some places well done, if not terribly complex. I would offer you… say… 450 dinars apiece.”

  Even as an initial offer, the price was high enough to please me, and I had learned that the merchants in the Empire expected haggling.

  “Let’s assume we negotiate a price that allows you to make two hundred dinars apiece when you sell the ring to someone who wears it. That would mean you would make something like six hundred if I sold you all three.”

  “Your math is accurate, if we accepted your initial premise.”

  I nodded. “So if you purchased them, you would earn a reasonable profit selling them.”

  He nodded in return.

  “Though I left the Seven Kingdoms years ago because I had no lord, I still have friends remaining there. I could arrange for you to have a constant supply of these rings to sell.”

  “Hmmm.” After a moment he shook his head. “I could definitely sell three for a profit. I could sell twenty or twice that for a good profit. I’m not sure how many more I could see in Lezh. Few here wear armrings. They’re just not in fashion.”

  “You know your market and with those numbers you must only sell locally. I have to admit, I’m surprised. I had heard you also sent your jewelry across the Empire and maybe even farther east.”

  I reached out for my rings.

  “I appreciate you looking at them. I’ll check with some other jewelsmiths that might be able to handle a larger quantity.”

  He hesitated, his glass falling back to his chest.

  “How many could you get?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Hundreds? Scores?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know yet. Sebastijan suggested that they might be valuable here in the Empire because they looked so different. I just decided to ask.”

  He looked at me strangely. “Sebastijan is from Achrida.”

  I nodded.

  “Why are you here in Lezh?”

  “This is where they’d get shipped to, I assume. They wouldn’t come to Achrida. At least not directly.”

  He looked at me closely for a moment and then nodded.

  “We do have ships coming from the Seven Kingdoms regularly here.”

  “And even if I could arrange for hundreds, which I doubt, they don’t take up much space on a ship.”

  He nodded. “Let me investigate my options. I’ll need to keep the rings.”

  “I will come back tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow. There are other jewel merchants in Lezh. I came to you first because Sebastijan says you can be trusted.”

  He looked at Sebastijan and back at me. “Then you should be willing to wait for more than a day.”

  “I told him you were honest. That doesn’t mean you’re the only honest jewel merchant here.”

  Timoshenko s
ighed.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you. Midday tomorrow, then.”

  Sebastijan took a right turn out of Timoshenko’s building.

  “Isn’t the Westering Winds to the left?”

  He nodded.

  “Where are we going then?”

  “We’re going to visit Besnik. At least, we’re going to go by his caravansary.”

  “I thought we were going to deal with Timoshenko and only threaten Besnik if we had to.”

  “Hush, Sevener. I know you find threats distasteful. However, we have nothing much to do this afternoon. We can find where he works and learn as much as we can about him.”

  I shook my head, but I could not argue his wisdom, though I remained tired and sore from the journey.

  Lezh was uncompromisingly arranged as a shipping town. The Crownstreet curved up from the port area around a hill to the front gate, using the shortest route with the least grade as could be arranged. Warehouses and caravansaries ringed the docks, surrounded by inns of at best mild repute.

  “We’re going to wander through the caravansaries. I think I know which one Besnik runs, but I want to make sure.”

  Sebastijan had told me that longer blades were not uncommon in Lezh and that I should wear mine while we roamed the city. By the time we reached the caravansary district I felt positively underdressed, as many of the caravan guards roamed Lezh wearing all their armor and weapons. In my fatigue, I had left my scale draped over the table in my room.

  Wagons filled the streets while many more sat in alleyways, some loaded and awaiting departure and others empty, awaiting packing. Foul-mouthed, gruff men and women with little patience and less time called the steps to that intricate dance.

  “He’s down this street.” Sebastijan nudged me down one of the side streets that curved off from Crownstreet, each paralleling the shoreline.

  Wagons lined the left side of the road while teamsters guided their teams back and forth. The road seemed paved in horse manure, and the smell dominated our noses.

  Another nudge told me which cursing man I needed to watch. White-bearded, with his head wrapped in the style of the eastern desert folk, he yelled less than most of caravaners, but he filled his yells with creative, flowing curses.