by Sonia Lyris
He must be in one of them. Surely.
Maris pointed upwards. “We call that one the flying fish, those six stars there,” she said. “Your people call it the scales, though. I think it tips a bit to that side. What do you think?”
Amarta turned around, noting every darkened doorway.
Maris put a hand on Amarta’s shoulder. “You panic at every door. Your blood is filled with exhaustion and fear. If he is everywhere as you say, Ama, then he will be everywhere in the morning, too. Rest tonight.”
She was at a loss; he had never before been so hard to find.
Of course, she had never been looking, either.
Amarta went to the door from which muffled laughter came. She put a hand on the wooden wall, half seeing it burnt to ash in many possible futures.
Could she relax, knowing how close he might be?
“Two lanes down is the Sleeping Cat Inn,” Maris said. “A comfortable place. We will go there.”
“I want to look inside.”
A tired sigh. “All right. I’ll wait here.”
Amarta pushed open the door and stepped inside, blinking in the room’s lamplight.
She could feel it at once, a pressure and thrumming behind her eyes; by entering, she had put something into motion, something to do with the hunter. Which of these people was he? Most were Perripin. But he was so good at disguise, perhaps he could even darken his skin at will.
On the floor in a cleared area a small dog stood on hind legs, cloth around its middle and shoulders. The animal made little barking sounds, like bird chirps. Some fifteen men sat around the edges, clapping and laughing and tossing bits of food to the dog.
“Jump, Cern!” one man yelled, tossed a bit of bread. The dog leapt, caught the bread in midair, continuing to make small yelps.
“My harvest taxes,” another man called in broken Arunkin. The dog launched upward to snap at the morsel he had thrown, staying perched on two legs.
“Levy for the hairs on my head,” another shouted, tossing another bit. The dog snapped it out of the air. “And the hairs on my toes. And this one is for—”
She had been noticed. The men fell silent and turned to look at her. The dog dropped to all fours.
None of those was him, she was nearly certain. Odd, because she could feel him somewhere in her next few minutes. Close. So close. Where was he?
“What do you want, light-skin?” one Perripin asked.
“I’m looking for a man,” Amarta said, surprised at how confident having Maris just outside made her feel.
“We are men,” said one, spreading his hands with a grin.
Another said: “You have money, Arunkin? I rent by the hour.”
A third man laughed. “You’re too ugly for her. You’d be the one paying.” Then, to Amarta: “There’s a man looking for someone described like you. He was light-skinned and bearded. That maybe who you’re after?”
Mutely she nodded.
“In here a bit ago. We see him again, want us to tell him you were here?”
Her answer, she knew, wouldn’t matter. “Yes, thank you.”
She turned her back on their stares, pushed open the door, and went outside.
The dark street was empty.
“Maris?” Amarta called, then bit her lip.
If Maris had been pulled away, something was truly amiss. For Amarta to call aloud was to give herself away to danger. She had come to rely too much on vision. Perhaps she should also learn to not make mistakes in the first place.
But there had been no warning. Did that mean she was safe?
Or did it mean something else?
Think, she told herself. Lack of vision did not mean lack of reason. She forced herself to stillness, to silence. To listen.
Voices came from around the side of a building. The laughter was Maris’s. Relief flooded her. She walked toward the voices, rounding the corner where Maris stood, speaking Perripin. As she neared, Maris turned.
“Did you find him?” Maris asked.
“He was there, but he’s gone now.”
“Ah, too bad. This is my friend Enlon. We studied together at Vilaros university. I crewed with him for a year, too. How long ago, Enlon?”
“Oh,” the man said, his voice a heavy mix of accents, “I say seven, maybe. Not a long time for you, mage.”
“Long enough,” Maris said, chuckling. “I shouldn’t be surprised to see you in Kelerre in these times. You always had a sense for where opportunity lay. Good to see you, my friend.” She clasped his forearm, and he clasped back.
“It is good,” the man echoed. Then his voice changed, so subtly that Amarta barely noticed the change until after the words were said. “Warmth and health to you, Seer.”
Amarta stumbled backwards, her heart pounding.
Maris frowned. “Enlon, you know—?”
“Maris,” Amarta whispered, still only half certain. “That’s him.”
He wasn’t anything like she remembered, not in how he looked—now with a headwrap as Perripin captains did, his beard braided—nor in the way he stood—a little stooped, head to the side. Not in his accented voice. Nothing about him looked right.
But as he returned her stare, she saw his eyes.
Maris had said she would protect her, but if she was friends with her hunter, then what? She stood as if frozen.
“No,” Maris said, drawing the word out. “This cannot be your hunter. I know this man.” As the moments slipped by and he did not speak, not to deny, not to explain, her expression slowly changed.
He said something to her in Perripin, something quiet.
“Indeed,” she said in response. “How—unexpected. You, of all people. Well. This woman is under my protection. You understand me?”
“I understand,” he said. Then, to Amarta, in a tone and accent that she now clearly recognized: “I am told by those in various establishments in Kelerre that you are looking for me tonight.”
Amarta swallowed. For a moment she couldn’t speak. “Yes.”
“Why?”
At his look, she felt sick, her stomach turning. She sucked in breath, one deep inhale after another, as if she were drowning.
“I am done running. I want to contract with the Lord Commander.”
“Ah. This is good. We are now aligned in purpose.”
“It has nothing to do with you,” she said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.
“I understand that, Seer. But these are dangerous times. I can offer you my protection en route to the palace and the Lord Commander.”
Amarta exhaled a laugh of disbelief. “You?”
“Yes, me.”
“Why should we trust you?” Maris asked.
“What cause have you to mistrust?” His voice took on the strange mix of accents again. “I’m no less Enlon than I am the one the Seer has been fleeing. Remember the sudden storm off the islands when we fought waves fifteen feet high? You trusted me then. With your life. Why trust me less now?”
Maris shook her head, clearly annoyed. “You are contracted with Innel. You take on disguises to deceive.”
He laughed a little. “Did you not also serve the Lord Commander, Maris? Where is your mage’s black?”
“It is not the same thing.”
“As you say.”
Others only want your head.
“Yes,” Amarta said to him, breaking in. “I will take your protection.”
They both looked at her, Maris surprised. “Amarta, are you certain?”
If she did not run from him, he could not chase her. Was it not better to have him close, where she could see him, than following behind?
Best to keep enemies as close as possible.
She forced herself to meet his gaze.
The price of not being hunted, it seemed, was facing these eyes.
“I am,” she said.
Chapter Twenty-five
“I have found what you’ve been looking for, Lord Commander,” Keyretura said as he stepped int
o the office.
For a short-lived moment, Innel thought that the mage had somehow found the seer. But no—three green-and-cream-clad servants trailed him into the office, carrying the stacks of ledgers Innel had given him to look over. He motioned them to his desk, where they set the stacks, then he dismissed them. They left quickly.
The mage looked at Srel and Nalas and gestured to the door. More disturbing than seeing Keyretura dismiss Nalas and Srel was how quickly they obeyed him.
The mage sat and tapped one of the heavy tomes in front of Innel with a long nail. “Page seventy-two. Note the name of the clerk signing. His accountings are accurate to the quarter-nals and without error. The problem begins here.”
“Perhaps he is simply good at his work?”
“No. The only clerks who make no mistakes are those with something to hide. Search his quarters.”
“I shall,” Innel said, noticing how much like an order that had sounded.
“Next is this: adjustments in accounts—the inconsistencies your ministers are so fond of excusing—are nearly always used to account for too little in places where there should be more. However, across all these books you have the opposite set of corrections.”
“The opposite set of—”
“You have too much coin to account for. This is a recent change, perhaps the last handful of years, and not at all a common problem in your empire. It certainly wasn’t the case when I audited these same accounts some thirty years ago.”
“Too much?”
“Yes. A number of clerks have been taking extra—some ministers as well—but more importantly, someone is putting unaccounted-for funds into your treasury. This is why, with all the extra being taken out, your clerks are both befuddled and yet able to make the numbers come out even.”
Innel sat back, stunned. “Who would do that, and why?”
“A good question. Perhaps it is time for another talk with your ministers.”
Innel considered this and the mage sitting in front of him. “Would you, High One, be able to help me assess the veracity of their words?”
“I assume Marisel told you that mages don’t read thoughts.”
“She did, indeed.”
“That is so. However, I do read bodies, and your kind lies both poorly and predictably. More importantly, those who believe I can detect deception are likely to reveal it without my needing to do much at all.”
At this Innel found he was smiling. “You seem to know a good deal about how people work. Mine in particular.”
“Yes, I do.”
It occurred to him that the mage might well have had a similar conversation with someone else the last time he audited these books, long ago. Just how old was Keyretura? He stared at the mage a moment and wondered why he had taken this contract. “What does my body tell you, High One?”
“That you are tired and need sleep. That you eat too little. That you sit too much.”
Innel snorted. “True enough.” He kept meaning to find time to take Nalas into the garrison and practice with him until they were both dripping with sweat, but there never seemed to be time. He looked at the ledgers and then at the mage. “I am fortunate to have you advising me, High One.”
“Yes, you are.”
“But it’s midwinter and very cold outside,” Nalas said. Then, catching Innel’s look, added slowly, “Which is a fine thing, because there’s little I enjoy more than fencing when there’s frost on the ground, ser.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Innel said. These days he seemed to always find a good reason not to. That stopped today.
Trailing a handful of guards, the two of them went to the practice yards outside the garrison and selected red-oak practice swords. By the time they were both good and sweaty, with a handful of bruises each, Innel ended the workout, handing his sword to one of the many guards watching and accepting a towel in return. As they walked back to the palace, they came upon a game of two-head between Kincel and Helata, with Tok watching from the sideline.
“I commend you for staying in good condition, Lord Commander,” called Tok.
“You should join us.”
“Na. Smarter than I am fast, as you may recall,” Tok said with a grin.
“Not saying much.”
As the Helata team slammed their blue and green ball into the goal, Kincel threaded theirs between the legs of Helata’s defenders, trailing a wake of curses and blows. The arbiter blasted a horn to indicate a goal on one side while Kincel’s gray and tawny ball went flying out of bounds.
“Good thing my mother finds me so charming, then.”
“I understand congratulations are in order—I hear she has named you Eparch-heir.”
Tok smiled wide.
“Speaking of which,” Innel said, “please tell her how very much the crown appreciates the good work Etallan has done with the tax collection warrants in Gotar.”
“I shall, ser. She will be quite interested to know if I have inside information into the timeline for the next Cohort. Do I?”
“You do not.”
“I thought I might not. And the other matter?”
Helata’s riverhouse mansion. Helata had been somewhat less than enthusiastic about the notion of selling their land and house to Etallan, at any price; their counteroffer to buy Etallan’s smithy included an extensively detailed accounting of the last ten years’ ocean-going freighter trade, with the portion that went to the crown underlined a number of times. Innel had put the discussion aside in the hopes that tempers might cool.
All because Etallan seemed to need to run their screaming grindstones and waterwheel-powered hammers all through the night.
“Out of my hands, Tok. Bring it to the queen,” Innel said, knowing the seneschal would never find time in the queen’s schedule for that particular matter.
Tok gave him a brief, assessing look, then turned back to the field, eyes flickering across the shouting, rushing players in House colors. “Who do you favor today?”
“I can hardly choose one House over another, Eparch-heir.”
A laugh. “It’s only a game, Lord Commander. Hardly anything at stake but reputation.”
“Then I suppose I can say both teams seem enthusiastic.”
“Truly? I think Helata looks worn.”
No reason not to give him something to gnaw on. “I admit I’m surprised to see them sticking with the diamond formation on defense.”
“But look—the woman on the left, doubled over and heaving? Their foremost. I don’t think she’ll make it to the end of the game.”
“Perhaps not.”
“Neither team a match for Etallan in any case. We lack for challenge among the Houses.”
Innel noticed Nalas talking to a just-arrived messenger. Nalas gave Innel a look and a nod. “Perhaps your house should try its skill against the down-city teams.” Aligned with the Houses, but only barely, wearing House colors and taking on matches that were more slum brawls than anything else. Still, better to have them in House colors, nominally answerable to someone, than wearing rags and answerable to no one.
“Pah. Anyone can win a game if they ignore the rules.”
“A good point.”
“Ser,” Nalas said, stepping close.
“Good day to you, Eparch-heir,” Innel said, leaving.
“Always a pleasure, Lord Commander.”
As they walked back to his office, Nalas said, softly: “The trade council. Another scout report from Varo. A bird from Sutarnan in Garaya. Another from Colonel Tierda in Sinetel. Also, the queen.”
“All this while we were hitting each other with sticks? Will I be happy with either of the letters?”
“You won’t like the one from Sinetel.”
“Ah.”
He thought of Tierda’s child and the implicit threat he’d made, wondering if she were worried about what he would do. In truth, he was too busy to do anything, let alone feed a child to pigs. Which would probably not, in any case, give him quite the reputation he wa
s looking for.
Once in the office, Srel delivered a platter along with a flagon of something hot and steaming that smelled of fermented apple. The plate held herbed marrow bones, and small toasts with brie. And, of course, the ever-present bowls of dipping sauce. He ignored them all for the cider, taking a mug and downing it.
“The queen?” he asked, sitting.
“She’s in the kennels, ser.”
He stood. “What? Why didn’t you alert me?”
“She’s only watching, ser,” Nalas said. “Watching the dogs. We would tell you if it were a problem.”
“Watching? But why?”
The two of them exchanged a look.
“Perhaps,” Srel said, “you might ask her. You see a bit more of her than we do.” The smaller man winced at his words.
Innel waved it away. It was no secret that they spent as many nights apart as they did together. He had vetted the others who entertained her for their skill and sense, making sure she was solidly well-guarded. The most important thing was that she was pleased, and pleased to see him when she did.
Innel had studied the histories of royal consorts and similar pairings and marriages. He knew the prevailing wisdom of making such unions last.
“The trade council?” he asked.
“They want you at this afternoon’s meeting,” Srel said. “Kelerre.”
The council was not happy with Kelerre’s reluctance to renegotiate contracts or the explanations that they hesitated because of violence along the Great Road. The recently levied import and export taxes on Yarpin goods were an additional insult. Cern’s rule was weak enough that Kelerre was pushing back.
It was Cern they should be asking to attend that meeting, not him.
“Sinetel,” he said heavily, holding his hand out for the letter, which Nalas put into his hand.
Nalas had been right: he was not happy.
Innel looked at the Minister of Accounts, Coin, and Treasury, who stood on the other side of his desk. He had not offered them chairs and indeed had made sure there were none in the room besides the one in which he sat and the one in which Keyretura sat.
The ministers’ eyes kept sliding sideways to the black-robed mage, seemingly hard-pressed to decide which of the two men they should be more concerned about.