“A trifling matter, but I can deal with it myself.”
“It cannot be that insignificant if you came to me with it,” he pointed out. “You’re perfectly capable of dealing with most things by yourself.”
“Flattery will not get you into my bedchamber tonight.”
“I was being honest,” he replied. “So, out with it.”
Selina sat down again but she remained pensive. “Some of my people have gone missing.”
Although the Regent had his own network of agents who worked at home and abroad, he indulged all of his wives in different way. His third wife delighted in fashion. His second in caring for animals and his first wife in spying. He had allowed her to recruit a dozen individuals to gather information. Unlike the hobbies of his other wives Selina’s favourite pastime yielded something of real worth. Often her people uncovered titbits of information that eluded even his most trusted agents.
“Missing? Or silent?” he asked.
“Missing. I’ve sent people to investigate and no one has seen them for days. Not their families or friends. They’ve simply disappeared.”
“How many of them?”
“Eight,” said Selina with a grimace.
Choilan whistled through his teeth in surprise. One or two might be considered a coincidence. Perhaps they’d grown bored in their dual roles and decided to move away and live elsewhere. Sometimes an agent dug themselves into trouble and would disappear, only to turn up floating in a river or lying in an alley with their throat cut. For so many of them to vanish without a trace was highly unusual.
“Send their names to Bettina and she’ll have someone look into it.”
“Thank you, Choilan,” she said, forcing a smile onto her face.
“Thank you for the idea,” he replied. “At times like these I’m reminded why you’re my First Wife.”
He expected another tart response, brimming over with vinegar, but instead she merely bobbed her head and went out of the door. As the silence returned the Regent turned his mind back to the problem of Garvey.
He still needed the people to see that he was doing something about the rogue mage and his followers. A show of force and gathering some soldiers would appease the people, but it wouldn’t change the outcome if they were ever to face the mages. Then again, if the worst should happen, perhaps a stray arrow might catch one of his followers in the neck. It had happened in Yerskania during the destruction of a village. Nevertheless, merely giving the order and making it publicly known that he was amassing a force would reassure some who thought him frozen with fear.
The wolves were at the door but he wasn’t done yet.
CHAPTER 5
Akosh maintained her rictus grin as Bollgar stuffed another pastry into his face before licking each of his fingers on that hand. His other held a pen which hovered over a ledger filled with pages of numbers in orderly rows. The page was pristine, as was every ledger on the shelves. The books were completely at odds with Bollgar’s appearance.
Severely overweight, balding and with several chins and no neck to speak of, Bollgar wore only a stained orange robe in a poor imitation of a monk. As his bulk had increased over the years finding clothes to fit had proven increasingly difficult. In the end he’d taken to wearing loose robes. The latest was plain and inexpensive, marked with grease, crumbs and dried bits of old food.
When she saw he was contemplating another pastry, Akosh cleared her throat loudly, drawing his attention back to the matter at hand. If he hadn’t been one of her children she would never have dealt with him.
“Apologies, Mother,” he said, wiping his fingers across his chest, leaving more grease marks on his robe. “Where were we?”
“Morrinow,” she reminded him.
“Ah yes.” He leaned backwards in his chair, which groaned alarmingly under his immense weight. He retrieved another journal from the bookshelves behind him that filled the wall, floor to ceiling. When not distracted by sweet delicacies Bollgar had a remarkable mind for numbers. Officially he was just a bookkeeper for half a dozen shops on a small side street in Herakion, the capital of Zecorria. Unofficially he was responsible for the money for several less reputable organisations, including various criminal enterprises in Zecorria. What even they didn’t know was that hidden among their own numbers was a set of ghost transactions he monitored on behalf of Akosh. Money donated by her children which was then given to orphanages across Zecorria and Morrinow.
Bollgar laid the journal on the table and carefully cleaned his hands on a wet cloth then dried them on another. Only then did he open the book. He didn’t care about his appearance, but no one was allowed to touch his books. Every page was spotless, which was remarkable given the quantity of crumbs hiding in the folds of his robe waiting to leap onto the paper.
The fat man muttered to himself as he ran a finger down a column of numbers. “I’m afraid to say it’s not good news. The contributions from the Morrin were always low, but they’ve dropped to almost nothing in the last year.”
It was as Akosh had expected. Setting up orphanages devoted to anyone except the Blessed Mother in Morrinow was always going to be a tricky idea. However, with patience and persistence, she had succeeded in a few of the smaller towns that were often overlooked by the capital.
It had been a little easier during the war, and then shortly after during the civil war in Morrinow where old ideas were being challenged. Now that the civil war was at an end many of the traditional values in Morrin society were being reasserted. This included a national focus on religion and the country was slowly edging back to a theocracy in all but name. Gradually she’d been eased out as devotion to the Blessed Mother was not only expected but required, and the punishments for being different from the norm were severe.
“Close the accounts in Morrinow,” said Akosh. “It was a nice idea, but I suspected it wouldn’t last. Focus on the accounts here in Zecorria.”
“As you wish.” He scribbled a few lines on a separate notebook and returned the Morrin journal to the shelves.
“How are the funds in Herakion?”
Bollgar didn’t even need to look at a journal for that. The figures were all in his head. His wide grin told her everything she needed to know before he even spoke. “Steady. But the numbers for this month are lower than last month. However, there is plenty of extra money sitting idle if you’re considering further expansion.”
“It has crossed my mind,” she admitted. “In fact I’m just on my way to visit an orphanage I recently contacted. If they agree today, I’ll want you to send a monthly stipend to them like the others.”
“Of course,” he said, making another note in his neat script. “Send me the details.”
Despite his indulgent appetite Bollgar had never let her down in thirty years. He was one of the first children she’d seen in the first orphanage she’d supported.
“You’ve been loyal and I value what you’ve done over the years,” she muttered and he flashed a grin, although his eyes strayed to the pastries again. “I would be displeased if you suddenly died because of a weak heart.”
Bollgar’s eyes snapped back to her and he seemed suitably abashed. “I’m trying to ration myself, Mother, but it’s my only real pleasure.”
She had a few vices of her own but none that were likely to kill her as quickly. It was possible he could die tomorrow. With a grimace she stood up and put a hand against his forehead. Bollgar closed his eyes at her touch while she used a small portion of her power to study him beneath the skin. After a moment she withdrew her hand, wiping the sweat away on her trousers.
“Thankfully your heart is still strong. I urge you to take better care of yourself,” she said.
“Yes, Mother,” he said, although she noticed he didn’t make it a promise.
If he died it would be a problem only because it would take someone months to decode his journals. Akosh smiled, letting him think it was because she cared. She had grown soft. It was time he took on an apprentice or two, just
in case he died in an accident, or she snapped his neck in a fit of rage. He wasn’t her only bookkeeper in Zecorria but he was the best. Even so it paid to plan for contingencies.
Akosh left him alone with his pastries and neat rows of numbers. She retraced her route from weeks ago and returned to a once grand part of the city in the east. The hand-drawn sign on the front door of the orphanage had been replaced with a neat wooden plaque and the exterior made brighter with a recent coat of paint.
On her first visit she’d seen mostly empty rooms with children amusing themselves using the barest minimum, but already there were a few noticeable changes.
As soon as she set foot inside the orphanage Akosh smelled fresh bread. In the first room off the entry hall she saw a group of children eating their lunch, happily stuffing bread smeared with butter into their fat little faces. A steaming bowl of thick stew also sat in front of each child. There was no fighting, no jealous looks at someone else’s portion, just contented munching sounds. She left them to their lunch and stepped into the room beyond.
Akosh found two neat rows of battered and worn desks, likely salvaged from an old school, being put to good use. Twelve children were focused on the teacher at the front of the classroom. The man was running through the alphabet on a scarred blackboard with the children repeating each letter after him. Some of the students were a lot older than the others, suggesting a life spent on the streets where reading and writing were not particularly valued. Being quick with your fingers and your feet was far more useful to criminal gangs. It might be too late for some of them, but the orphanage gave all of them a chance at a new life if they wanted it. All they had to do was obey the rules and adopt the one true faith: hers.
In one corner of the room sat a small wooden crate of toys and a neat stack of books. She searched for a prayer corner and any votive lamps or candles, but couldn’t see any. The teacher spotted her by the open door but didn’t seem alarmed. He merely gestured with his head back the way she’d come. Akosh took the hint and went in search of Jille, the administrator.
At the back of the building was a small office. She knocked on the door and almost immediately Jille opened it and stepped back in surprise. Akosh noticed she’d put on a little weight and the bags under her eyes had faded. True to her word she’d been taking better care of herself as well as the children.
“I wasn’t sure we’d ever see you again,” admitted Jille. “Please, come in.”
The office was unchanged and as Akosh sat down on one of the battered chairs she thought she smelled damp paper. Jille saw her wrinkling her nose and gestured at a pile of books.
“A nearby school recently closed. We managed to salvage some desks and books, but they’re a little damp. We’re just drying them out.”
“You don’t need to do that,” said Akosh. “You have money for new books.”
Jille shrugged her thin shoulders. “We didn’t know if we’d receive any more money. So we’re trying to make your donation stretch as far as possible.”
“What else have you spent the money on?”
“Food, clothing and blankets mostly. We also hired a new member of staff. He’s focusing on teaching them to read and write. People always need scribes, messengers and bookkeepers.”
“Have you spoken to any of the other orphanages where I’m a patron?” she asked. Jille squirmed in her chair but eventually answered.
“I visited one of them and the man running it let me see inside.”
“You seem uncomfortable,” said Akosh. “Did you see anything untoward?”
“Oh no,” apologised Jille. “All of the children were well fed and happy. I spoke to the staff and they were wonderful.”
Akosh folded her arms and leaned back in her chair, baffled by Jille’s reluctance. Normally these meetings were over very quickly. The offer of free money for the children, on a regular basis, should not have been a difficult decision. And yet something about all of this had made Jille uneasy. “I’m getting the feeling you’ve made a decision and it’s not one I’m going to like.”
“Your offer is generous, and we’re grateful for the money, but I must turn it down. We’re going to teach the children about the Maker.”
Akosh took a deep breath and counted to twenty slowly in her head before speaking. “Why?”
“The Maker is a safe choice. We can ask at several churches for donations and they’re not going to disappear. I spoke to a few people and not too long ago no one had ever heard of Akosh.”
On the one hand she couldn’t blame Jille. Things could change rapidly. Now every church of the Holy Light was dedicated to the Lady of Light. No one prayed to the Lord of Light any more. He’d only been gone for ten years, but already was being quickly forgotten. His sudden absence served as a constant reminder to Akosh that she needed to move slowly and with caution. One of her brethren, someone with significant power, had eliminated the Lord of Light for interfering with the mortals. Akosh was very aware that if they found out what she was doing in ten years’ time no one would remember her name either. Despite knowing all that she sensed something else had changed Jille’s mind.
“Are you sure?”
“My mind is made up,” insisted Jille, although she didn’t look very certain.
“I want you to think carefully about this, Jille. Your decision will affect a lot of children and their future.”
“If this is about the money, we still have some of it left,” said Jille, pulling open a desk drawer.
“I don’t care about the money. Keep it. Did someone say something? Has someone approached you?”
Jille shook her head but she refused to make eye contact. So someone had spoken to her. Perhaps they’d threatened her or the children. The question was, who? A priest from another faith? An agent representing one of her unusual siblings? Or someone else? A human group?
“Who did you talk to?” asked Akosh. Jille was sweating now and she seemed to have decided that silence was her best defence. “Tell me.”
“I think you should leave.”
“I can make you tell me,” promised Akosh. She didn’t need to draw a weapon. It would only take a little pressure to break her. Breaking a couple of fingers usually did the trick. Failing that dislocating a joint was enough if they didn’t faint from the pain.
“Is there a problem?” said a new voice, startling them both.
A tall man with beady eyes and trousers that were too short for his gangly frame stood in the doorway. Jille relaxed at seeing a friendly face, but Akosh wasn’t done. This was perhaps her only opportunity to find out who was interfering in her business.
“I’m still waiting for an answer,” she said, ignoring the newcomer.
Jille stared at her friend, silently beseeching him to help her. He came into the room and even went so far as to put a hand on Akosh’s shoulder.
“You’re making her uncomfortable. You need to leave.”
The way he said it sounded unusual. As if he’d been rehearsing it. Perhaps he wanted to impress Jille and make himself the noble hero of their little story. She wondered if this was some kind of scam. There was definitely more going on than she’d been told. Finding out what, without killing at least one person, was becoming increasingly unlikely. Dead bodies would attract the attention of the authorities and there were always ripples from unsolved murders. Enough of those and the people she wanted to avoid, her siblings, might start investigating.
Caution. It was the first and most important lesson she’d taught herself in the last few decades.
Jille’s friend took her hesitation as reluctance to leave and dug his fingers into Akosh’s shoulder, trying to get her to move. Caution was important, but sometimes others took the decision out of her hands.
Akosh grabbed him by the wrist and twisted it sharply to the right. He dropped to his knees as she stood up, angling his arm to try and relieve the pressure. Instead of crying out in pain as she wrenched his arm, he grinned and reached for something behind his back. It was w
hen he drew the dagger that she finally noticed his boots. His clothes were old and ill-fitting, the trousers too short and threadbare, as she’d expect for someone in his position. But his boots were new and had been polished until they shone. He loved those boots and took very good care of them. Whatever his purpose in being here, he’d exposed himself by being unable to fully commit to the role of penniless teacher.
He slashed at her with the blade and Akosh was forced to release his arm and step out of the way. The back of her knees collided with the desk and she glanced over her shoulder. Jille was pressed against the far wall, wide-eyed with terror. Whatever was happening she wasn’t involved. She didn’t have the guile and was terrible at lying but Akosh still didn’t know who had coerced her into rejecting the money.
“Who do you work for?” asked Akosh, but the man just grinned, showing off even white teeth.
“Help! She’s attacking Jille!” he shouted over his shoulder. There was only one door out of the cramped room and the space was already crowded with three of them. If anyone else came into the room it would be difficult to escape.
Akosh rushed the man, dodging a slash and shoulder-barging him to one side. The back of his head collided with the wall and he started to fall, but stuck out a leg on the way down. She tripped and went skidding into the hallway on her stomach.
As she scrambled to her feet Akosh heard children crying and screaming. The teacher was staring at her with alarm but his eyes widened in horror as he stared over her shoulder. The tall man came out of the room with blood dripping from a gash in his forehead, stumbling for dramatic effect. The back of his head had struck the wall and yet somehow his face was bleeding.
At the sight of blood the children’s wailing increased in volume and now the teacher was trying to shield all of them with his body, arms held wide. The tall man was edging closer, looking disoriented and groggy. He was making a heroic effort to keep Jille safe and it looked convincing, until he winked at her.
“Take whatever you want, just don’t hurt the children,” he shouted, holding up his hands in surrender. A smile quirked across his face and then it was gone.
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