Farlanders' Law (The Rose Shield Book 3)

by D. Wallace Peach

  Dalcoran shifted his posture in obvious discomfort and nodded at Neven’s unspoken offer of assistance. The mercy stood behind him, hands on his crooked shoulders. Dalcoran inhaled as relief penetrated his joints. “Vianne, would you convince Catling to bring the child to Ava-Grea for the conclave?”

  “I have no inkling of her thoughts or plans, but I shall attempt a conversation.”

  “And assure the queen that she has the guild’s full cooperation.”

  Vianne blinked at him. “A new attitude?”

  Dalcoran gestured without commitment. “The queen has proved some durability. Until we know more, we’d be wise to delay any decisions until after the conclave.”

  The suggestion reasonable, Vianne dipped her chin.

  The first bell signaled mid-day. Neven finished his administrations, and Dalcoran rose to his feet. He bent his head to the older man and addressed them all. “I regret that I have another engagement. In the meantime, Brenna, would you send word to the tiers that we are prepared to accept new aspirants for training?”

  “Will we recruit from the warrens?” Vianne asked. She resisted the proposition, but the tiers changed with each passing day as Gannon’s agreements took hold, some more rapidly than others. They might as well agree upon a response to the inevitable query.

  “Not yet,” Dalcoran replied. “One seemingly insurmountable obstacle at a time.”

  Brenna and Neven departed first as Vianne collected her spools of silk and packed her unfinished lace. She brushed down her pearl jacket and patted her cinnamon braids in place, prepared to face the heated breeze. The door slid open and Falco Linc, the Cull Tarr ambassador to the Influencers’ Guild, paused before entering. A handsome man with his swarthy looks and long oiled hair, Linc wore Cull Tarr scarlet beneath his long jacket and gold tinkled on his wrists and ankles. He bowed. “My respects, Vianne-Ava.”

  Vianne bowed in return, not quite as deeply. “My respects, Ambassador.”

  “Please, you must call me Falco.”

  “As you wish.” Vianne didn’t return the offer.

  The ambassadorship was a recent position agreed to by the queen. Vianne suspected appeasement and couldn’t imagine why Lelaine would accommodate a request so invasive and useless. At least, he wasn’t a venomous viper like his counterpart in Elen-Sia. Instead, Falco blended pious humility and holy purpose with a smooth tongue that almost sounded reasonable.

  To a person, the doyen refrained from sharing the slightest tidbit of information with a man so closely tied to the mysterious Shiplord. Vianne considered it a personal slight when Cull Tarr preachers characterized influencers as malevolent. And it didn’t help that, in addition to being contradictory, their faith made no sense whatsoever. So why the meeting with Dalcoran?

  “Consulting with the demonic?” she asked.

  Dalcoran frowned at her, but Linc waved the remark away without any sign of offense. “Superstition among the more fanatical of my people.”

  “Why not correct the misperception?” She met his eyes, her challenge clear. “Surely it doesn’t serve our mutual best interests. We might assume the affront is sanctioned by the Shiplord.”

  “The Shiplord is a holy man with an ear for the Founders’ truth, but he is only one man, separated by leagues of sea and land from his people. Perhaps when our nations are once again joined in fellowship, the Founders will forgive us all our sins.”

  “I shall resist the day.” Vianne smiled. “A pity we can’t air our differences further, but it seems you have an appointment to keep.”

  Linc bowed. “You are a witty woman, Vianne-Ava, with a quick mind. I look forward to the day when we are one in faith before the Founders’ grace.”

  Vianne screwed her eyes at Dalcoran, her unspoken question conveyed in the tilt of her head. She picked up her bag of tatting and left the room, the door sliding closed behind her. She wondered what precipitated the meeting or if it was their first. What was up between those two?

  Chapter Seven

  The queen’s ferry crawled up the Slipsilver, drawn by harnessed waterdragons that set their own pace against the swirling current. The two-story monstrosity was the largest vessel on the river, and around her, the Queen’s Guard sailed small skiffs, those in the fore clearing the way of other waterborne traffic. The duty guards on board leaned on spears, crossbows slung on their backs.

  The ferry’s upper level belonged to the queen with the exception of a large salon where the prestigious passengers congregated. Windows wrapped three sides, and the servants had swung them inward and upward, hooking them to the ceiling so the cool river breeze might waft through the sunny space.

  Gannon stood beside Catling where she leaned on a windowsill. Below, Rose’s nurse, Mireld, a sweet woman with pocked cheeks, held the girl on her hip for a stroll of the deck. Catling watched them like a mother hawk. The woman pointed to things of interest: waterdragons, birds, trees, the ship’s bell, a host of riverboat sights, all the while mouthing the words.

  “Do you wish that was you?” he asked, well aware of the answer.

  “All the time.”

  “I can’t believe I’m on my way to Ava-Grea. I swore I’d never return to that city.”

  “I doubt Vianne will torture you again.” A quirky smile curved her lips.

  “It’s the whole place.” Gannon peered ahead at the spillway into the West Canal leading to Bes-Strea. “After my merciless torture and years of imprisonment, I’m instructed to abscond to a rat and snake-infested swamp. There I’m dependent on a pair of wild savages who talk to ghosts and eat anything that slithers. I abandoned you to the natives—an act of desperation, I assure you—and floated down this river, missed both canals, got shot at by Colton over there”—he gestured at the guard by the door who looked up upon hearing his name—“ate poison, and ended up a Cull Tarr slave for a close to a year.”

  Catling raised her eyebrows, her expression amused and entirely pitiless. “It sounds terribly dramatic.”

  “Worse. One appalling nightmare after another.”

  The Cull Tarr ambassador frowned at him, and Gannon frowned back, his experience with Shipmaster Tilkon less than delightful. Kest turned his attention to Lelaine where she reclined on a chaise, drinking her afternoon wine. “And yet, Gannon, you were instrumental in helping us return your lovely queen safely to her father.”

  “Funny how my memory differs on that point,” Gannon said.

  “No arguing.” Lelaine beckoned him with a finger and patted the space beside her. He sighed and sat on the edge of the chaise in case Kest got the idea she meant the invitation for him.

  The ambassador refilled Lelaine’s wine and took a chair, cradling his goblet of boiled water. The stripes in his jet hair lent him a feral appearance. “My master seeks to fulfill his duty to the Founders. We are a peaceful people bent on reconciliation with our brothers and sisters. The Protocols are a guide for fulfilling the Founders’ vision for Ellegeance, one of peace and prosperity.”

  “Nowhere in the Protocols does it state that the Shiplord has the authority to revise the laws on a whim,” Gannon said. “And they don’t address your preachers’ version of humility or uprising or afterlife at all.”

  “You’ve read them, Gannon, but have you studied them?” The superiority in Kest’s tone seeped from his skin like sweat.

  Gannon ignored the question. “The Protocols outline a conduct of behavior, a code of law meant to maintain order—including the vote, of which I wholeheartedly approve. Humility is merely obedience to authority in keeping with the law. What you call uprising is a hierarchical process of escalating complaints of illegality. The afterlife and reward at the Founders’ table are non-existent.”

  Kest tutted him. “A superficial understanding and correct on a most surface level, suitable for the masses. But centuries have passed, and the world has changed. Literal interpretations are no longer applicable. We rely on the fundamentals, the spirit behind the teachings that create a functioning society. Every
civilization requires a ruler”—the man inclined his head toward Lelaine—“a supreme individual who makes the complex decisions of governing. Laws must be flexible to accommodate the evolving world. Of course, you agree, Your Grace.”

  “I do.” Lelaine sipped her wine.

  “The rift of our past,” Kest continued, “serves neither of our peoples. Nowhere in the Book of Protocols are separate factions and opposing bases of power permitted. The Shiplord wishes to remedy our mutual failure to implement the Founders’ vision.”

  “I suspect the Shiplord is unwilling to abdicate,” Gannon said.

  “He is willing to compromise,” Kest replied, his eyes inky as the night sea. “Ellegeance is… compromised by evil deeds, your tier cities at war with each other, your territories uprising, influencers swaying the weak to their own aims. Your queen is a dedicated ruler, yet you face a grave future.”

  “A clever insult couched in praise.” Lelaine finished her wine and looked down her nose at the man. “You believe the Shiplord is the answer?”

  “My regrets, Lelaine-Elan.” Kest dipped his chin. “I meant no insult but share my admiration of your fortitude. The solution isn’t in our master but in our faith. At its most basic, the Founders’ Protocols offers a hierarchy of law, as Gannon suggests, but they also provide a means for each person to achieve his or her highest potential. No one is limited to the station of their birth as they are in Ellegeance. Every person possesses a vote, no more or less than a high ward. No one is subject to the evil sway of an influencer’s agenda. At the Founders’ table, we are equals.”

  Gannon smirked. “How do you justify Cull Tarr slaves?”

  “Merely restitution for their sins,” Kest replied with a smooth smile. “All codes of law provide consequences for evil. Who does one punish when influence is responsible for an offense? The perpetrator or the influencer? The Cull Tarr face no such quandaries. We each reap the consequences of our own actions.”

  His gaze shifted to Catling, and he sipped his purified water in a silent challenge. She met his narrowed eyes with a placid mask. Gannon didn’t think Kest knew of her ability and, therefore, assumed that influence demarcated the boundaries of her skill. Catling blew out a sigh. “I agree with the Cull Tarr on influence’s potential for evil.”

  “An unusual sentiment for an influencer,” Kest said. “You must hold remarkable talent to serve the queen of Ellegeance. I don’t believe I have ever called on her without finding you at her side.”

  The door to the salon opened, admitting Mireld and Rose. “Forgive our interruption. If you are willing, she is needing her mother.”

  Catling hurried to greet them with her arms wide, and Gannon marveled at the young nurse’s intuition, her perfect choice of words. Catling smiled at her daughter. “Rest yourself, Mireld. I will find you if the queen requires my attention.” The woman bowed and retreated, and Catling took a chair, Rose chortling and slobbering on herself.

  Kest studied the child. “I heard rumor that children of influencers possess a portion of their parent’s residual talent.”

  “I’ve heard the same.” Catling looked at him, and if she experienced any apprehension about his question or Rose’s capabilities, she disguised it behind a blank mask of indifference. “And I certainly hope not.”

  ***

  Kadan lingered beside Minessa on the rocking deck, the Slipsilver’s rippling current blending into the swamp’s smooth waters around Ava-Grea. Waterdragons rolled in the liquid light, fanned their winged fins, and slapped graceful flukes, releasing plumes of glittering spray. Nessa laughed as droplets of cool sunshine spattered their faces, a refreshing break from the northern heat. Hummocks of caliph and witchwood rimmed the river, vibrant with fire-winged birds and snow-white egrets. The swamp smelled green and overripe.

  Ava-Grea rose from the midst of the waterway, a twelve-tier lotus on eight pylons encircled by floating docks and piers, skiffs, dories, and tethered rafts. Ellegean carvirs and cutters docked to the north, the sleek riverboats guarding the queen’s ferry, and a Cull Tarr skudder rested at anchor mid-river like a sullen jailor. Kadan winced at the sight, the Cull Tarr’s presence creeping insidiously into his view wherever he turned.

  “Are you anxious?” Nessa asked, clinging to his arm.

  “About the conclave?”

  “About meeting your cousin.”

  Kadan blinked at her, the word “cousin” muddling his head every time she let it slip. Catling’s baby, Rose, his cousin. “I suppose, but not only that. I have mixed memories of my training in Ava-Grea, some pleasant, but many more of a painful nature.”

  “We met here.”

  “One of the more agreeable experiences, I’ll admit.” He smiled at her. “And you? Only happy memories?”

  She shrugged. “More than most, perhaps.”

  “Are you sorry you left?”

  “A senseless question.” She gazed ahead at the tier city as they neared the docks. “Mur-Vallis is my home now.”

  At twenty-three, Kadan had assumed the title and duty of High Ward of Mur-Vallis, a tier city struggling to recover after years under his uncle’s merciless reign, a rule cut short by Kadan’s touch. The past two seasons required an effort equal to two years, and exhaustion chipped away at his endurance. The eternal problems ground him down, the tiers a tangle of intrigue and suspicion as if his uncle’s sway had infiltrated the gray mass of the Founder-made walls. Bribery and brutality had been the most effective means to an end, the currency of corruption reaching from the underlords’ dens to the city’s gardened peak. Though he trusted Captain Baltan-Elan of the tier guard and Tora-Mur, the city’s influencer, he hated leaving them with the chaos. Attendance at the conclave was mandatory and with good reason.

  The ferry bumped and groaned against the pier as the rivermen captured a berth. Nessa staggered and held onto his arm. “Let’s find Catling as soon as we’re settled. I want to hold the baby and gush all over her.”

  “I imagine that will require little effort on your part.”

  “None.” She laughed and climbed to the pier.

  With porters hired, they wended their way along the docks, up the ramp and lift to the tenth tier where a capable servant assigned quarters for the visit’s duration. The woman handed Kadan a folded note that he read and passed to Nessa. “Dalcoran requests a conversation before I become distracted.”

  “I’m sorry, love.” Nessa pouted and squeezed his arm. “You go ahead, and I’ll get us settled.”

  Kadan pecked her cheek and rode the lift to the twelfth tier. He announced himself and a servant led him into Dalcoran’s salon, a room both austere and comfortable. The doyen looked up from a half-completed puzzle, his severe grooming and dress unchanged in the decade Kadan had known him. A touch of gray marked the time along with the visible degradation of the man’s joints. Despite his smooth face, Dalcoran wore the body of an old man.

  “Kadan, welcome to Ava-Grea.” The doyen abandoned his pastime and ushered Kadan to a cluster of cushioned chairs. “I imagine you make great strides in Mur-Vallis.”

  “If one can stride while tiptoeing. I avoid crushing the fragile self-regard of a hundred cowards while ducking the attempts of tyrants to toss me off the tier.”

  Dalcoran chuckled. “Leading always appears simpler from the outside. It’s the ambiguous and bewildering decisions that require leadership, not the obvious ones.”

  “You asked to speak with me?”

  “In a hurry?”

  “Merely tired.” Kadan smiled. “And Minessa is impatient to call on Catling and talk of babies.”

  “Ah.” Dalcoran nodded. “Our intriguing influencer becomes ever more curious.”

  “No one can accuse Catling of being ordinary.”

  Dalcoran leaned forward in his chair, hands clasped. “There’s a chance that the child has some ability to influence. I’m interested in your impression of her, if you sense anything unexpected. You might ask Catling the same.”

  Kadan tapped a
finger on the chair’s arm, studying the doyen. “Have you asked her?”

  “I wish to avoid an appearance of prying.” He stretched his back. “Catling and I never… communicated well. I doubt she’s forgiven me for past decisions.”

  “The ambiguous and bewildering,” Kadan suggested.

  “Exactly. We’ve reached a place of mutual forbearance, and I’d prefer not to upset her. Yet the guild requires the knowledge. We would ask it of any influencer.”

  “Of myself and Minessa?” Kadan understood the guild’s interest, but the necessity eluded him. The presumption that his future children might fall under the guild’s purview irked him as much as the request to spy on his friend.

  Dalcoran paused as if the possibility that Kadan might father an influencer had just occurred to him. “You know better than most the unique requirements and obligations of power. Imagine a child with untrained influence and no oath to provide moral guidance.”

  “I understand,” Kadan said, desiring nothing more than to flee the man’s presence.

  “This is all speculation, naturally.” Dalcoran struggled from the chair and returned to his puzzle.

  On his feet, Kadan straightened his jacket. “I’ll learn what I can.”

  “If you would.” Dalcoran met his eyes. “There’s often no sign of heredity at all, Kadan. At this time, it’s mere inquisitiveness, an assessment for the future.”

  “I’ll be discreet.”

  Chapter Eight

  Kadan yawned, and Nessa ignored his less than subtle nudge for a nap. The search for Catling and Rose took less time than he’d anticipated, a relief given the size of the upper tiers and the layers of guards. Nessa halted and clutched his hand. “Oh, look, Kadan.”

  On the eleventh tier, Catling sat in the mottled shade of a potted arbor, singing nonsense songs to his baby cousin. Ava-Grea’s gardens sparkled with fountains, and Rose sat in the midst of a shallow basin, naked and fat as a frog. Catling peeled a fresh lissom and fed the pink fruit to Rose who pinched her face at the tartness, tongue darting out as if she might catch a fly. Catling laughed, a serenade of pure happiness as rare as summer snow, and Kadan melted with relief.