The Seer - eARC

by Sonia Lyris

  Angrily, she pushed the vision away. It wasn’t fair, the way the future so often ruined the present. She realized Dirina had gone somewhere else in the house.

  “Ama?” came her sister’s voice from out of sight. “Come see our room!”

  “Coming.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “What do they say today, Srel?” Innel asked.

  A knock at the door of Innel’s office delayed his steward’s reply. Srel opened the door, took a large platter from a servant with one hand, and closed the door with the other. As he walked to Innel’s desk, he passed by Nalas, who reached for a slice of mutton. Moving the platter just out of his reach, Srel arrived at Innel’s desk. Finding no available space among the books and ledgers and maps, he sighed, setting the platter of food on a side table.

  Innel glanced over at the array of food. Olives cut open like tiny flowers, pâté arranged in swirls on small toasts, slices of mutton precisely fanned out as spokes on a wheel, sausage and onion and who-knew-what-else bits of vegetables on silver skewers, neatly piled in stacks.

  So much fuss.

  Then there were the bowls of dipping sauces.

  He and Srel had had a number of conversations about how dipping sauces and important documents did not get along well together, but still his steward could not be persuaded to obtain simpler and less messy food. “Appearances, ser,” is all he would say.

  “Well, ser,” Srel said, considering Innel’s question as he adjusted the plates on the tray. “Many are concerned about the insurgencies at Erakat, Lukata, Rott. The consequent import shortages. Speculation that rebellions are spreading. Some say Sinetel is holding back on shipments again, making our extended military efforts there seem ineffective.”

  “Continue,” Innel said, suddenly in a bad mood.

  Srel poured a mug of wine for Innel.

  “Then there’s Garaya’s many years of tax shortfall. A large city, much like our own, and so there is concern the problem could spread to Munasee or even Yarpin, like a disease.”

  “Pah,” Nalas said, stepping toward the platter of food. “Garaya is nothing like Munasee or Yarpin. Barely touched by the Houses. Barely a port, for that matter, and a far smaller garrison, whereas—”

  “Agreed, ser,” Srel said, interrupting as he arranged a plate of food while managing to position himself between Nalas and the table. Srel handed the plate he’d prepared to Innel; then moved aside to finally allow Nalas access to the food. “But what is said is less about veracity and more about coin and who thinks what about whom.”

  Innel looked for somewhere to put the plate Srel had given him that did not endanger some important document. “Go on,” he said.

  “Then there is your mage, ser.”

  Palace denizens might have suspected Marisel of magery, given the strange way she wandered the halls and looked as if she were not entirely present, but Keyretura’s traditional black garb left no room for doubt. In truth, Innel had expected more than whispers. The lack of outright objection told him that he had made the right decision in bringing Keyretura to the palace in the open.

  “What do they say about him?”

  “That he guards the queen. That he is making the king whole and hale. That he selects children for the upcoming Cohort. That he’s been turning iron into gold—or the other way around, depending on who is speaking. Is seeking certain of the queen’s relations for execution. Or commendation. Again, depending on who you ask. Is enchanting the army. Is helping the queen conceive a child. The list goes on.”

  The last caught Innel by surprise. He considered the old king and his single child and wondered if there was some historical basis for that particular rumor.

  “Oh, and the Minister of Accounts wants his books back, ser. No rumor, that—he addressed me directly in the hallway a few minutes ago.”

  “Tell him he can ask me.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  * * *

  “Do you think I’m hiding something, Lord Commander?”

  The Minister of Accounts stood before him, nearly vibrating with emotion.

  Innel had cleared the office of all but Srel in case the minister was inclined to confess to anything, though his current demeanor rather discouraged that hope.

  Putting aside the temptation to answer as bluntly as the question allowed, Innel replied: “I am trying to understand the extent of the”—what was the best phrase?—“involved and subtle work you do for the crown, ser.”

  “How is this your purview?”

  “I sleep in the queen’s bed, Minister.”

  “Not every night, Commander,” he said, words clipped.

  Nowhere near confession, it seemed. Innel was sure the minister would never had said such a thing to his predecessor, Lason.

  He put on what he hoped was a polite smile. “You are quite right, Minister. Our time apart whets our appetites nicely, and those nights I do spend with Her Majesty we talk very little. But some. We could, if you wish, talk about you.”

  The man pressed his lips together, jaw working as if he were sucking on something sour. “I want my books back. I do actually use them.”

  “You have copies.”

  “Creating the originals is my work and my life, Commander.”

  “I’m sure it is, Minister. Bring me copies and you can have these back. I’ll have my retainers verify both sets to be certain.”

  The Minister of Accounts’ jaw worked again, faster, harder, for rather longer than Innel had expected.

  Finally: “Yes. All right, Lord Commander.” Then he bowed, an exaggerated motion that Innel chose to take as entirely sincere.

  In a corner of Innel’s office, Srel spoke softly with the queen’s seneschal about scheduling and the trade council, while in another room the many ledgers of accounts were being compared to the copies that the Minister of Accounts had delivered.

  Nalas looked out the window at the newest execution Innel’s oddest Cohort brother, Putar, had designed. Large screws drove belts that went to various sharp objects that moved slowly into the hands and feet of some five traitors, each turn of each screw based on a nonstop game of cards and dice the guards were overseeing a stone’s throw away, where a long line of Yarpin citizens waited to join in.

  Wagers on the results of executions were a long-standing Yarpin tradition, but Putar had cleverly reversed cause and effect, making Execution Square’s activities even better attended than before. Innel wondered if Putar would make a good Minister of Justice, finding himself a bit queasy at the thought. But then, so would others, so it was worth considering. Perhaps when Cern’s rule was stronger.

  Innel turned his attention to the bird-sent report from Garaya’s governor and re-read it to see if he was missing anything in the man’s words. At least these days he could be confident that he missed no letters; Cahlen’s new birds were achieving an impressive reliability record, topping nine in ten returns.

  The cost for this performance seemed to be that only Cahlen would work with them. Her arms, hands, and fingers were always covered with bandages, doing little to inspire others to come near the birds. Innel briefly considered the wisdom of one day making her Minister of Bird.

  Putar and Cahlen as ministers. Should those things come to pass, the palace would be an odd place indeed. He winced and put the thoughts aside.

  Nalas poured himself some spiced wine, putting Innel in mind of his own cup, which he raised to his lips, finding it empty. He held it out silently until Nalas noticed and hastily refilled it.

  “What does he say, ser?” Nalas gestured at the report with his cup.

  “He uses a great many words to reiterate their continuing inability to make up the shortfall.” An entire city. A significant amount of revenue for the crown. “He’s blaming the merchants for creating unrest among the citizens. He wants our support, urges action.”

  “Action? He wants us to send force?” Nalas frowned. “To Garaya?”

  “Strongly hinting, yes.”

  Innel di
d not imagine that any of the Houses would find the warrant for this particular tax region at all appealing. It was one thing to march across the countryside collecting taxes and who knew what else, and another entirely to march into a walled city and demand an accounting.

  “Find someone who knows Garaya. As I recall, Sutarnan has business investments down there and is there often. Probably knows all the merchants personally. See if he’ll go along as an envoy. Tell him I’ll give him a rank if he helps us solve this.”

  Nalas’s eyebrow rose at this. Sutarnan was one of the Cohort with little military service who wanted a rank anyway.

  At the door, Innel heard Srel say: “Yes, of course—go in.”

  Innel looked up. This particular queen’s guard was one of a number that Innel had handpicked. She knew to report to him directly when she needed to.

  A quick dip of the head, a fast salute.

  “Ser,” she said. “The queen was visiting the old king. When she emerged, she ordered the dogs taken away, which the handlers did. Then she went to the kennels. She says she wants them killed.”

  Srel made a wordless, distressed sound. “That would not be good.”

  A bit of an understatement.

  With Nalas and Srel trailing, Innel left at a near run. Down the stairs, onto the palace grounds.

  Arriving at the kennels, he exchanged a fast look with Sachare. From her expression and almost imperceptible shake of her head, he knew Cern was not likely to be reasonable.

  “Where are they?” Cern demanded, striding back and forth past the cages of iron and oak. “Where?”

  Seeing Innel, the kennelmaster almost swooned in relief, stumbling a few steps in his direction. “Lord Commander!”

  Innel ignored him. “Your Majesty,” he said softly to Cern, coming close but careful not to touch her. “I am here now. Let me take care of this for you.”

  “If by ‘take care of it,’ Innel, you mean run them through with your sword, as I watch, yes. Do so.”

  He inhaled, considering what to do about this rather unambiguous command. While the dichu were generally looked on with more fear than affection, slaughtering the king’s favorite two dogs would, at best, be seen as lack of respect for the old king and all he represented—including a half century of imperial expansion and prosperity—and at worst seem a kind of treason.

  Cern’s popular regard in the palace might not yet be able to digest such a meal.

  “Perhaps we should reflect on this somewhat first, my lady,” he said.

  “They growled at me, Innel. They snapped at me.” She turned around, looking through into the cages of brindled black and tan dogs, all of whom sat up eagerly, heavy tails thumping, as if she might have snacks. “Which ones are they? Tell me!”

  The kennelmaster’s mouth was opening and closing as, wide-eyed, he looked to Innel for guidance.

  The two dichu she wanted sat in one of the corner cages, in plain view. With surprise Innel realized that though the two dogs had sat at the king’s side for years, Cern could not tell them from the others. Willful disregard on Cern’s part; she did not want to know anything about them.

  That she hated the dogs was not a secret. Understandable, even, given how her father had used them and their forebears as object lessons, bringing them to Cohort meals and studies, extolling their virtues of wit and ferocity, using them to demonstrate how mating was properly done, his gaze pointedly on Cern all the while, while Cern pretended not to care.

  Here and now, with guards standing ready but confused, hands on hilts, and the dog keepers fluttering about in near-panic, news would spread like a flash fire across the palace if the dogs were slain at Cern’s command. He had to stop this.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, “let me—find them. I’ll bring them to you in your rooms”—no, she wouldn’t like that—“better yet, my offices. Surely this”—he waved a hand vaguely, as if to include possible slaughter, “is better done in private?”

  She turned around, seeming to only now notice the many eyes on her. She gave an abrupt, angry nod and walked off, trailing her guards and Sachare, who paused long enough to mouth at Innel: “You had better fix this.” He gave her a small nod.

  With Cern was gone, he gestured at the two dichu in the corner cage, the ones she had been looking for.

  “Leads and muzzles. Bring them.”

  “Lord Commander, I beg you,” the kennelmaster said. “Her Majesty startled them, I’m certain of it. They’re good dogs, sweet and smart, they would never—”

  “I know what they are. I’ll save them if I can. Do as I say.”

  Innel gave the dogs’ leads to Nalas to take elsewhere and went back to his office without them.

  Cern was already there. Innel tipped his head to get rid of her guards so they could talk alone. They looked to her for confirmation, then left.

  Sachare, of course, ignored this command, leaning back against a wall to watch. She was, Innel realized, nearly as good as Srel at fading into the background when she decided to. For a moment he wondered what the children of that particular union would be like, and whether Sachare found Srel at all appealing. He was arranging matches, he realized to his annoyance, and pushed the thought aside.

  “You’re going to tell me I can’t, Innel,” Cern said in a brittle tone. “Somehow you’ll convince me it’s a poor plan and that I should look past this to some larger picture.”

  “Yes, exactly, my lady. They are . . .” How to explain? “People see them and think of the king. I know how you feel, but we’re not yet ready to have them see butchered animals where he once stood.”

  She was silent a moment. “You are right. But he may no longer have them with him. If I want to see my father—I, the queen—no animal will stand in my way.”

  He bowed his head. “It will be as you say, Your Majesty.” This would mean finding another bargaining chip for the old king, but there was always the slave.

  “Even now they obey him and only him. Anyone else, they growl and snap.”

  “I can address this poor behavior, my lady.”

  “You can?”

  “Of course.” He was nowhere near as confident as he pretended, but when compared to everything else he was addressing, it seemed a small thing.

  “Then they may live.”

  Bowing to Cern, he caught Sachare’s smirk. He knew what she was thinking, that he had just agreed to train the old king’s dogs. He gave her a flat, humorless look, and she smiled even wider.

  “Keyretura dua Mage al Perripur, ser,” Srel said, standing aside for Keyretura and dropping his head slightly. At Innel’s gesture, Srel left, along with the rest of the crowd Innel’s many-roomed office seemed to collect, staring at Keyretura as they went.

  Innel pushed away the ledger he’d been working on and the long lists and diagrams representing troop movements and supply lines. He set it atop the pile, watching the mage walk into the room.

  The Cohort had been a rich study of those who intended to hold power. From early on, he and his brother had watched everyone keenly to understand the roles they intended to take, studying how to act in all ways like the aristos they could never become and the military leaders that they someday might.

  Late into the night they would whisper, comparing the stance and mien of foreign dignitaries to Anandynars royals. Watching at dinners as House eparchs and governors ate and laughed with the king, noticing all the little ways that power played out—the grip of a goblet, the twitch of a mouth, the incline of a head, the changing measure of a gait. Face and posture, word and tone, the entirety of one’s physical presentation was a language that revealed thoughts and intentions, that showed how each person swam through the political surf of palace life.

  Now he watched Keyretura, who briefly looked around the room for a chair. Innel had already moved the only other chair to the far side of the room. He wanted to see what the mage would do.

  The way Keyretura moved was unlike anything Innel had ever seen. Smooth. Spare. Confidence in each
step.

  No, it was more than confidence; it was beyond that. Some would call it arrogance, but Innel recognized it as competence.

  Keyretura took the chair Innel had placed so far away and turned it to face Innel. Then he stood, watching Innel, seeming content to stand there and wait until his point had been made.

  Innel gave it a long moment to see if he would do anything else.

  “Let me get that for you, High One,” he said at last, going to the chair and bringing it close to his desk. When Keytretura and he were both seated, he considered what he wanted of the mage.

  He knew what Keyretura would see when he looked at him: bloodshot eyes, haggard expression, days’ worth of beard. Cern had not yet said anything about the shaving, but he must make time to do that.

  Keyretura spoke. “You need rest.”

  “I need a lot of things,” Innel said. “I need Sinetel to start producing ore instead of bodies. I need Lukata and Rott to stop sabotaging the rails and resume shipments to Houses Etallan and Nital. I need Garaya to stop whining about tax contracts they agreed to seven decades ago. And I need the girl’s head, since no one seems able to bring me her mouth.”

  Innel had hesitated to tell Keyretura about the Seer and his now years-long search for her, but at this point there seemed little point to silence.

  “Affairs of state will go better if it is not generally known that a mage is involved, especially a Perripin mage. The obvious politics I leave to you. As for the Botaros girl . . .” Keyretura paused.

  “Yes?”

  “The man you have pursuing her. The expensive one. I know him. If anyone can find her, it will be him.”

  Tayre, he meant, who was overdue to report back on his plan to hire the girl, making Innel suspect it had not gone well.

  “In three years he has yet to deliver any part of her but for some hairs. The others I’ve hired have done even less.”

  “Have your searchers look south, to Perripur.”

  Innel leaned forward in his chair, suddenly feeling more alert. “You know where she is?”