by Lisa Shearin
Tam’s expression hardened. “We’re the only ones who do.”
*
When we left the morgue, I almost had to run to keep up with Phaelan.
“Death curse?” he blurted. “Death curse?”
“Yeah, so? You said yourself Will Saltman and his crew were bottom-feeding scum that deserved anything they got, including a death curse.”
“They did. I don’t.”
I was officially confused. “What?”
“I brought two bodies that’d been struck dead by a Khrynsani death curse on board my ship.”
“They’re dead. They can’t hurt anybody. Death curses aren’t contagious.”
“Try telling that to my crew.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I don’t have to. Enough of my men knew it was dark, heebie-jeebie magic that killed them. I’ve got to clean the Fortune. Now.”
Somehow I couldn’t visualize my cousin swabbing decks. At least not anymore. While Phaelan and his brothers had been growing up, the decks of Uncle Ryn’s ships had been clean enough to eat off of. Whenever any of his boys got out of line, he’d put a mop in their hands. Those boys had done a lot of deck swabbing.
Phaelan stopped just short of rolling his eyes. “Not scrubbing. Blessing. I need a priest.” He frowned. “More than one. I need a priest from every religion on this island.”
“Aren’t you overreacting?”
“No!”
“Your crew won’t care—”
“My crew will be going over the side like those rats if they get wind of this. And they will find out. They always have.” He stopped, a puzzled look on his face. “I’ve never figured out how. It’s not like they’re very smart.” He took off again. “But they’ve got superstition in spades. They’re a good crew, and I’m not about to lose any of them.”
Phaelan ran out the citadel’s front doors.
“What’s gotten into him?” Mychael asked.
“Temporary religion.”
Chapter 11
Markus Sevelien was one of the most determined people I’d ever met, but even he had to admit, late in the afternoon, that when the peace talks officially started tomorrow morning, he wasn’t going to be sitting at the elven delegation’s table.
The elven delegation had originally consisted of Ambassador Santis Eldor, Isibel, and Markus. The ambassador’s assassination and Markus’s thwarted murder left Isibel as the sole representative of the elven queen. Markus had said she was good, but few people were that good.
The injuries to Markus’s body would be keeping him in bed, but his mind had been working furiously on a solution. That solution arrived along with the last of my relatives who would be attending my and Mychael’s wedding.
My cousin Mago Benares, aka Mago Peronne, aka anyone else he needed to be.
The eldest son of my Uncle Ryn, Mago had determined long ago that the best way to make money was to manage it for other people. He’d kept his first name but changed his last, because needless to say, most people wouldn’t trust their money and investments to the son of the most notorious pirate in the Seven Kingdoms. He could change his name, but nothing could alter his instincts. Mago was a vice president at the First Bank of D’Mai in Brenir. My cousin may have had the instincts of a pirate, but he lacked the stomach of one. For Mago, to set foot on a deck was to feed the fishes. The last time he’d come to Mid had been by ship. It’d taken him the better part of a day to recover from the experience. This afternoon he’d arrived from Brenir, dashingly attired in flying leathers, on a chauffeur-flown sky dragon.
Sailing made him sick; flying only messed up his hair, and that was from the helmet.
Go figure.
Mago was your basic tall, dark, and handsome elf. Phaelan had always claimed that Mago had stolen all of the height so there’d be none left for him. If that’d been possible, Mago would have been the one to have done it. He was well educated, well traveled, and well heeled—the very personification of a gentleman adventurer. He could change identities and professions at a whim.
It was that skill that’d led to Markus attempting to lure my cousin away from his lucrative banking career and into intelligence. His efforts hadn’t borne fruit after his initial effort; however, he seemed to be having better luck this time, at least temporarily.
Mago had agreed to assume yet another identity, this time in service to his queen.
He and Isibel had been meeting with Markus for the better part of the late afternoon and early evening, plotting strategy. Dalis had hovered protectively, ensuring her patient didn’t exhaust himself.
My cousin would be playing the role of a diplomat. It’d been said that he could rob a man blind and have that same man thank him for his good work. It’d be interesting to watch him work his magic at the negotiating table.
Mago was born to sit at a negotiating table—or as he was doing right now, schmoozing at a reception.
Today had been exhausting enough, but tonight had proven that there could always be something worse.
A cocktail party.
To get the delegates talking to each other before the peace talks officially started tomorrow morning, Justinius Valerian was hosting a reception in the citadel.
I’d never liked fancy parties. Fortunately, I’d never been invited to that many, but I knew I wouldn’t like them.
I was right.
I’d never been one for small talk. If you didn’t have anything to say, or there wasn’t anyone you particularly wanted to talk to, then why go to the trouble? It didn’t help matters any that Mychael wasn’t here yet. He was in down in the communications room. Ben had contacted the ship carrying Mychael’s parents to make sure the Guardian escorts were with them. They were expected tomorrow on the evening tide.
I wanted to meet my in-laws. I was also terrified to meet my in-laws.
Mychael had been assuring me that once they met and got to know me, they’d love me.
I wasn’t holding my breath on that one.
That sense of impending doom wasn’t doing a thing to help how I felt right now. I felt like a major diplomatic blunder waiting to happen. Not only was I a fish out of water, I was flopping around on the dock.
Mago, on the other hand, couldn’t have been more in his element. To look at him you’d never know that he hadn’t spent his entire career in the foreign service. He and Isibel looked stunning together. Mychael’s sister didn’t strike me as the type to have her head turned by a handsome face, but Mago also had wit, charm, and intelligence in spades, as did Isibel. The two of them were working the room like the professionals they were.
I almost felt sorry for the other delegates.
Almost.
For the role of elven diplomatic attaché, Mago had assumed yet another alias—Mago Nuallan. It helped that he’d recently grown a dashing, meticulously trimmed beard. It went well with his new identity.
Mago Peronne was the personal banker of the goblin king Chigaru Mal’Salin, not exactly a shining example of elven impartiality. Mago Nuallan was a brilliant up-and-coming, hotshot member of the elven foreign service. Rumors had been carefully and strategically placed so that Mago would be touted as Markus Sevelien’s secret protégé—and secret weapon.
Markus’s absence had been noticed and asked about. Mago and Isibel had gone with a version of the truth—always best when the absolute truth would cause a panicked stampede. Markus was recuperating from an illness, and hopefully would be well enough to attend the talks in the next day or two.
If it were anyone else, I’d have said fat chance of convincing the best diplomats in the kingdoms, but this was Mago we were talking about. He was all of that and things they wouldn’t know until it hit them at the negotiation table.
I’d spoken with Mago and Isibel twice so far this evening. Now Mago, making his way toward me through the crowd while Isibel was chatting with the Caesolian ambassador, signaled he was stopping by for chat number three. As far as the delegates were concerned, we’d only r
ecently been introduced, not grown up together.
Everyone knew only too well who and what I was, and they were steering clear. Once Mychael arrived that would change, but until then, it was as if I was an ill-tempered sky dragon. Steer clear and you wouldn’t get fried.
“At least they’re acting like they’re enjoying themselves,” I noted to Mago when he got close enough.
“These are career diplomats, Raine. Not only do they enjoy this kind of thing, it provides them with valuable insight to their fellow delegates, or as we say in the financial sector—fresh meat.” My cousin inclined his head to a Majafan delegate with a smile a barracuda would’ve been proud of.
“You’re having the time of your life.”
Mago took a deep, satisfied breath. “It is a refreshing change of pace.”
“Markus wants to steal you from your banking job.”
More smiling and nodding. “I know. We’re presently in the courtship phase of negotiations.” He glanced over at where Tam, Imala, and Dakarai Enric were acting like they were enjoying drinks and light conversation. Tam wasn’t even wearing leather. Imala had dimples. Dakarai Enric was a sweet old man. None of it helped. Every last one of the other delegates was giving them a wide berth, like feeder fish around sharks.
Maybe it’d help if goblins wore a color other than black.
“They’re not going to make friends like that,” I muttered. “Though if Tam and Imala walked up to any of the other delegates, they’d pee themselves, faint, or have a heart attack.”
No one had weapons. That was a good thing. No chance of panic-related accidents. Though apparently word had gotten around about Tam’s abilities. Unless you were suicidal, no one wanted to talk to a man who could kill you with a single word. The whole death curse thing worked against you, especially in social settings. Even more unfortunate was that the Nebian ambassador had met Tam before. It hadn’t gone well. Tam didn’t like the Nebian, either. It was the only thing they’d ever agreed on.
Mago grinned devilishly and set his drink on a passing tray.
“I don’t think this will cause heart attacks, but let’s see if I can stun the room into complete silence by introducing Mago Nuallan, elven diplomatic attaché, to the goblin delegation.”
I bit my bottom lip against a snort. Oh, I wanted to see that.
“And me with a front-row seat,” I murmured.
Mago straightened his doublet. “Prepare to be dazzled.”
As my cousin crossed the room, Isibel gave him a breathtaking smile and joined him—and you could have heard a cocktail fork drop as the two elves gave a warm greeting to the three goblins.
“Isibel and Mago seem to be enjoying themselves.”
The voice came from right behind me, and I damned near jumped out of my skin. If recognition hadn’t overridden my survival instinct, I could’ve stabbed my own fiancé.
“Don’t do that,” I said around a smile for the benefit of the Brenirian attaché, who was venturing closer, now that Mychael was by my side.
Mychael put his big hand around my waist. It was warm and comforting. I breathed out a little sigh and felt myself relax. A little.
“You really don’t like these things, do you?”
“No, I don’t. If I knew—and liked—these people, it’d be different. But I don’t, so it isn’t. Are there a lot of receptions that the paladin is required to attend?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Some are Conclave related, others for the college and faculty.”
“I know some of the faculty, and like them. That might not be too bad. Conclave mages…” I didn’t finish that sentence, and knew I didn’t need to. Mychael knew how I felt. Though if Garadin and Tarsilia signed on as two of the Seat of Twelve, I would have no problem attending any function on this island. I told Mychael about their arrival and the potentially amazing news.
He smiled and nodded in approval.
“Words can’t describe how wonderful that would be,” I said.
“If Justinius is self-appointing replacements, he’d better do it quick and get them invested and sworn in even quicker,” Mychael said. “In times of crisis, an archmagus has made personal appointments, but that was for the sudden death of one or two of the Seat of Twelve.”
“Two would die at the same time?”
“About two hundred years ago, one challenged another to a duel. Let’s just say they were too evenly matched.”
“That could do it.”
“It could and did.”
“Has he told you the names of any of the other candidates he’s considering?”
Mychael shook his head. “He has his work; I have mine. If I need to know or he needs my help, he’ll tell me.”
I just looked at him.
“Yes, I know. You couldn’t do that.”
“Aren’t you in the least bit curious?”
“He has his work—”
“And you have yours. Yes, I got that. But—”
“I had no doubt that he’ll make fine choices, and I’ll enjoy hearing them when he tells me.”
I looked over to where Justinius was listening while the Caesolian ambassador, Duke Something-or-other, talked the old man’s ears off, probably about their northern border with Rheskilia and the goblins. The Caesolian delegation had a near obsession with it. The Caesolians were concerned that once the goblins made nice with the elves, they’d turn their military might loose on their southern neighbor. I had two bits of news for the duke. One, the goblins’ military might was in disarray right now, and quite frankly had always been larger in rumor than reality. Two, goblins had absolutely zero interest in acquiring anything south of the Straits of Mourning. Well, unless it was Caesolian red wine. Goblins loved their Caesolian red. But as far as I knew, no kingdom had ever gone to war with another over fermented grape juice.
Though from the way Justinius Valerian’s fingers clenched his wineglass, he’d probably like a bottle of it right now to break over His Grace’s head to get him to stop talking.
“I think he prefers ‘traitor mage housecleaning’ to diplomacy,” I observed.
Mychael took a healthy swig of his own wine. “Don’t we all? It’s certainly easier to know when you’re making progress.”
Chapter 12
“Another day, another room I hate,” I muttered.
Vegard grunted in agreement. “I don’t think anything good has ever happened in here.”
It was early the next morning, and we were standing in the meeting room of the Seat of Twelve.
The last time we’d been in here, there’d been a raised dais with twelve throne-like chairs. It had looked less like a meeting room and more like a star chamber for passing judgment.
I’d been summoned once to a meeting of the Seat of Twelve, though it had felt more like an ambush. The Khrynsani had claimed I’d stolen the Saghred from the goblin people and wanted me turned over to them for prosecution. Inquisitor Taltek Balmorlan of elven intelligence had wanted to lock me away for everyone’s safety. That was what he’d said. What he’d really wanted was to use me and the Saghred as a weapon to wipe out the goblins. Carnades Silvanus, an actual member of the Seat of Twelve, had merely wanted my head on an executioner’s block, the sooner, the better.
None of that had scared me. Well, not too much. What had terrified me was Carnades’s and Balmorlan’s claim that through my contact with the Saghred, I’d contaminated Piaras. They wanted to take him into “protective custody.” Taltek Balmorlan was later exposed as an arms dealer, except that the weapons he dealt in were magically gifted people, people who had talents that made them powerful and deadly weapons. Like Piaras’s spellsinging ability. He’d later had Piaras kidnapped, and Phaelan and I had barely been able to rescue him before Balmorlan would have taken him off the island on his private yacht.
So this room had absolutely zero fond memories for me.
Over the next few days, if we managed to get a peace treaty agreed upon and signed, I’d reevaluate my opinion, but not until then.
The room was of a size to contain the twelve thrones and any poor sot or sots who got called in to answer for their actions.
For now, a circular table had been installed with twenty-one chairs around it. There were Seven Kingdoms, and no more than three delegates per kingdom were being allowed at the negotiating table or in the room.
That didn’t mean the delegations couldn’t have ridiculously large support staffs. But Justinius had declared—and Mychael would enforce—that only three of the staffers could be in the citadel during the talks. If one of the delegates needed anything, that request would be relayed through one of the three Guardians assigned to each delegation. That meant one Guardian per delegate from the time they entered the citadel until they left. Outside the citadel’s walls, the delegates’ safety was the responsibility of their own security people. Armed Guardian escorts were available to escort delegates back to their embassies, if requested.
So far, no one had asked for it, but Justinius kept the offer on the table. He didn’t want to waste valuable Guardian time and resources playing chaperone to any delegates who decided to have a night on the town. If they got themselves into trouble blowing off steam or releasing tension from spending a day at the negotiating table, their own people would have to haul them out of whatever they landed in.
However, if that trouble ended behind bars, it would be Mychael’s job to go down to the city watch station, smooth down any ruffled diplomatic feathers, bail them out, and escort them under guard back to their embassy.
Justinius had made sure that each delegation knew the rules before they set foot on the island. He was too busy to babysit people representing their kingdoms who didn’t have the good manners and enough sense to act like it.
Mychael and Sedge Rinker, the chief watcher, were fully prepared to make an example of the first one who tried. Or, if the arrestable offense was serious enough, the offending diplomat could cool his or her heels in a cell overnight before being escorted back to their embassy and forced to remain there for the duration of the talks, so-called diplomatic immunity be damned.