Viltred strode over to an elegant silk-upholstered day-bed and settled himself with enviable aplomb. “Wine, thank you.” He waved a dismissive hand at the flunkey who took himself off at some speed.
I took a chair at a satiny fruitwood table and tried to match Viltred’s air of ease, fighting a feeling that I should be standing at the alert as I would in formal attendance on my patron at home.
“Viltred, my dear!” A door opened and a superbly built woman swept in with a rustle of yellow silk and perfume. She embraced the old wizard with some passion and sat herself beside him, tucking her dainty feet under her before sweeping a queenly gaze around the rest of us.
“This is Mellitha.” Viltred kissed her hand with a courtly grace at odds with his travel-stained appearance and I had to curb an unexpected smile of admiration for the old mage.
“Who are your companions?” She arched a finely plucked eyebrow in a face as flawless as the porcelain vase behind her head. I wondered how old she was; her chestnut hair was finely brindled with white and I could see a tracery of fine lines around her keen gray eyes.
Viltred introduced us. The flunkey returned with the wine and was dismissed, our elegant hostess pouring for us herself.
“How are the children?” inquired Viltred with what sounded like genuine interest.
“Tref’s traveling through Ensaimin, painting portraits of all the little lordlings with pretensions of grandeur.” Mellitha smoothed her expensive gown, bright with embroidered flowers, over her generous curves, and seated herself again.
“Tia’s still in Hadrumal with her father; she’s learning the book-binding trade and they’ve agreed she’ll take over when he retires in a year or so. Sanan is getting married soon, a lovely girl from Col; her father owns a string of inns so they’ll move there after the wedding. Patrin’s soldiering in Lescar, which I’m less than happy about, as you can imagine, but I heard from her a few weeks since. She’ll be back in Relshaz for Solstice and I’m going to try and persuade her to come into the business with me now.”
“I would certainly be happier if she did that,” nodded Viltred.
Mellitha laughed. “There’s no use you sounding so fatherly; I’ve told you often enough I’ve no idea if she’s your daughter.”
I looked at Viltred; so the old bird had spread his wings in his younger days, it seemed, raising his crest to good effect, and he must have had some song to charm a woman like this. Mellitha was evidently a woman of substance and independence, no mere ornament in her silks and scents.
Shiv coughed. “I’m afraid this isn’t just a social call, ma-dam.”
She dimpled a smile at him. “I didn’t think it was. How can I help you?” She smoothed a hand over her immaculate coiffure and was suddenly all business.
Shiv told her our tale with admirable conciseness, given the frequent interruptions by Viltred, not all of which I thought relevant. Mellitha surprised me a little by asking for my observations and I could see her eyes were alert, notwithstanding her demure self-possession. In a way it reminded me of conversations with my patron’s current paramour, Lady Channis, one of those daunting women whose beauty is nevertheless a lesser asset than her wits. Halice and Livak sat silently sipping the cool white wine and occasionally exchanging a glance. I saw Mellitha looking at them as they shared one of those moments and realized this was a woman who was going to want to see both sides of this coin before she put it in her purse “Do you think you can help us?” Shiv said finally.
“I can certainly make some enquiries about foreigners in black livery for you.” Mellitha moved to seat herself at an elegant desk and took out smoothly expensive reed paper and ink. “People like that should stand out, even in Relshaz ”
“Be careful about drawing attention to yourself,” warned Shiv. “These are dangerous men, killers.”
“I’m a tax contractor,” said Mellitha confidently “I’m supposed to ask questions and I have plenty of people working for me who understand discretion.”
“You mean you don’t get all your information through cunning spells and infallible sorcery?” Viltred laughed “That’s what I heard last time I was here ”
“You’re a mage?” I couldn’t help the surprise in my question.
“I am, but that’s not my main business. Still, I make sure I’m seen working enough magic to keep the rumor mill fed. It comes in useful.” Mellitha smiled sunnily. “Most folk don’t see any point in lying about their income when they’re convinced you can see through desks and read their ledgers.”
Livak laughed and I saw she was looking more at ease recognizing Mellitha as a woman molded from the same clay as herself. Should that worry me, I wondered wryly?
“I should scry for the thieves,” Viltred broke in. “You might see something which you recognize.”
“It could help you direct your inquiry agents,” Shiv agreed and I murmured my own assent.
Mellitha rose and smoothed her gown over her ample hips. “That’s something we can do now. I’ll need a few things, so please build me a picture of these people while I fetch them.”
She rang a silver bell and doors opened to admit a pair of maids who rapidly laid a selection of elegant lunch dishes on the sideboard.
These went initially ignored as Viltred sat forward and concentrated on creating an image of the Elietimm in the air above the table. Livak, Halice and I watched, absorbed as the old mage wove skeins of blue light into first wisps, then sketchy shapes, then solid figures with every color and detail precise. Mellitha collected a bowl, a flagon of water and some small vials. Shiv was watching her preparations with interest.
“What are you using?”
“Perfumery oils.” Mellitha dripped precise amounts into the water. “I’ve been working on a few new things lately and this has been producing very good results.”
Viltred came to sit beside her and the three mages peered into the fragrant bowl. Mellitha looked at the image of the Ice Islanders for a long moment then set the water spinning, the oils on the surface gleaming in the green glow of her magic. Dark, indistinct images half formed and then dissolved. Faces loomed out of the depths and then floated away into nothing. A stone floor suddenly appeared sharp and clear, and then vanished just as quickly.
I looked over at Halice and Livak; we exchanged a shrug and went to get something to eat.
“How very odd.” Mellitha sounded distinctly put out. “I can’t keep the spell focused and I know I’m not doing anything out of the ordinary. The best I can say is they’re definitely in the city but I can’t even begin to guess where.”
Shiv sat back and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t think you’ve been doing anything wrong. There’s something interfering with the spell. I’ve seen it before, this is what has been happening to us—”
“Are you quite sure it’s an external problem?” asked Viltred, doubt plain in his eyes.
Mellitha gave Viltred a level look. “Who’s the one with water affinity here?”
“What do we do now?” Shiv’s face was a study in frustration and I couldn’t blame him. We were finally in the same place as our quarry and the wizards’ magic chose now to desert us again. I wondered how soon we could make contact with Livak and Halice’s associates.
“Wait a moment,” Mellitha held up a brightly ringed hand. “You know, I came across something like this a few years ago.” She rummaged through a pile of small journals in her desk drawer. “Here it is, a fine art dealer whose income didn’t add up. I tried to follow him on a journey to Formalin and something fouled up my magic for a couple of days.”
“What was it?” demanded Viltred.
Mellitha shrugged, leafing through her notes, a frown marring her forehead. “I never was exactly sure. It was all rather odd; he was trading in religious art, shrine statuary, the sort of thing people used to keep in their houses. As close as I could tell the problem was caused by something in his possession. I wasn’t even sure he knew about it. I mean, as soon as he’d sold on all
the votive figures, the scrying came clear and I was able to see just how much coin he was making above his voting declaration and where he was banking it with a goldsmith in Toremal.”
She looked up at the stillness in the room and glanced at each of us in turn. “I take it I’ve just said something significant?”
“It’s complicated,” Shiv temporized.
Mellitha fixed him with a steely gaze. “Young man, I am one of the leading tax contractors in this city. In order to purchase the rights to collect taxes, I have to calculate a tender that the Magistracy will accept while setting taxes that people will pay without too much objection. Expenses are the contractor’s responsibility, so making my own profit adds a further complexity. I spend my life dealing with complicated matters.”
Shiv had the grace to blush and started to explain what the Archmage had discovered so far about the largely unknown, aetheric magic that the Elietimm could wield with such frightening ease.
The ocean dock at Zyoutessela,
before the watchtower was built on the heights
and while the old fishmarket still stood
The circle of the harbor was packed with vessels and not the fishing boats that usually swung from the quay sides. Tall-masted, high-sided ocean ships clustered awkwardly along docks built for smaller craft, each busy with sailors and less agile folk loading and stowing a wide variety of gear.
“Where do you want this, then, Esquire?” A docker halted, red-faced as he balanced a weighty sack on one shoulder.
“That’s beans, is it?” Temar checked the stamp on the leather tag and then ran a careful finger down his list. “Fore-hold, next to the little casks.”
The man grunted and moved away, several others following him.
“Wait a moment.” Temar moved to check their loads. “Fine, go with him.”
He watched a second line of porters carrying caskets and leather bags down to the accommodation deck, making sure each had the charcoal mark that signified official permission. As the last man disappeared down the ladder he heaved a sigh and glanced up to check the sun; with all the noise, he hadn’t heard any chimes since dawn and had no idea how much of the day had passed. At least it wasn’t too hot this early in the season, he mused, and the rain that had plagued their previous days’ labors was holding off.
Just as he thought this, a chance shift in the wind brought a faint brazen ringing to Temar’s ears. Dockers and porters turned to look at him expectantly and he tucked his list into the breast of his jerkin.
“Noon break!” confirmed Temar with a loud shout, the workmen’s faces mirroring his own relief at the prospect of a rest and something to eat.
He tucked his lists into the front of his dull-green jerkin and made his way through the crowds toward one of the fisher-inns, opening a waxed note-tablet pulled from one pocket and carefully scoring through the tasks he’d accomplished that morning. More were left than cancelled but at least it was all progress. Temar smiled a little ruefully to himself; what would Lachald think if he could see him now, ink-stained hands and charcoal smudging his plain cuffs?
“You’re looking very cheerful, Esquire D’Alsennin.”
Temar looked up to see he had nearly walked into a thin man with a shock of gray hair swept back from a hatchet-thin face. Green eyes, pale as a cat’s, stared at him, unblinking.
“Messire Den Fellaemion.” Temar made a quick reverence and wiped his palm on his breeches before offering it.
“How goes the loading?” Den Fellaemion acknowledged Temar’s courtesy with a brief handshake.
“Very well, Messire, we should have all the dried goods aboard by the end of the day and almost all the accommodation problems have been resolved.”
“Good,” the lean man nodded approvingly. “Do you have a current lading list for my clerks?”
“You’ll have it by sunset,” Temar promised, hesitating a moment then taking out his note-tablet again to add it to his list of things to do. Better look like a child learning letters in a dame-school, he felt, than risk forgetting.
A faint smile flickered across the nobleman’s pallid lips. “Take some refreshment with me, D’Alsennin.”
“Gladly.” It may have sounded more like a command than an invitation but Temar was too thirsty to worry about that.
Den Fellaemion looked around the quayside and signalled to a lackey with a wicker basket slung over one shoulder. “Let’s find a quiet corner.”
That was an easier task than it would have been before the noon chime, but the dock was all but deserted now as the toiling throng pressed into the taverns and clamored for a meal. Temar led the way to a ledge cut into a rocky outcrop where he’d seen women mending crab traps. He took the wineskin offered and quenched his considerable thirst gratefully.
“Ah, excellent.” Den Fellaemion opened the basket and took out fresh bread, spiced chicken, dry-cured ham and a yellow cheese wrapped in butter muslin. He passed Temar a dish with its lid tied and sealed. “See what’s in that, will you?”
It proved to be a medley of fruits in sweet wine, and Temar’s eyes brightened.
“Den Rannion’s lady still seems convinced I need feeding up,” observed Den Fellaemion in an amused tone. “I think there’s enough for two here; do help yourself.”
“Thank you.” Temar pulled his knife from his belt and cut himself a generous slice of the crumbly cheese.
“There’s something I need to mention to you.” The older man leaned back and closed his eyes as he enjoyed a gleam of spring sunshine that picked out the subtle brocade in his severe gray clothing.
Temar hurriedly ran through his recent duties in his mind but was unable to find any immediate cause for concern. “Yes?” Perhaps the Messire had some new responsibility for him.
“With your House providing four ships, provisioning several more besides and many of your tenants signing on for the colony, you are suddenly one of the major sponsors of our expedition, did you realize this?”
“My grandfather is the Head of our House; he deserves that honor.” Temar wondered what Den Fellaemion meant.
“Your grandfather is not here. You are.” The green eyes opened and fixed Temar with a piercing stare. “Many people will be looking to you as their patron, both before we sail and once we settle across the ocean. You will have a significant client base, if you choose to exploit it. What are your intentions in that area?”
Temar spread his hands uncertainly. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“It is time that you did,” said Den Fellaemion crisply. “If you are intending to live off the backs of your tenants in the style of such Houses as Nemith, I think our venture can do without you, despite the resources you offer. If, however, you intend to take a full part in leading the colony, shouldering your obligations and responsibilities, then I can see you could even hope to become a valued deputy to Den Rannion and myself. There are precious few of the noble class involved in this expedition and since the commonalty will look to us, as they are used to doing, how we conduct ourselves will have a major impact on the success or otherwise of the colony.”
Temar abruptly snapped his mouth shut. “D’Alsennin has always been a House most conscious of its duties to its tenants and the interests of the Empire,” he said stiffly.
Den Fellaemion regarded him, unsmiling. “Then would you care to explain why you have been sampling the favors of nearly every willing maiden who has crossed your path since you arrived here? There are many outmoded traditions that I intend to leave behind on this dockside and the right of a Sieur or his designate to make free with the female tenantry is certainly one of them.”
Taken completely unawares, Temar said the first thing that came into his head. “My grandfather wishes me to marry—”
“I do not recommend choosing a wife by trying her paces between the sheets; you test horses before purchase, not women, if you want peace at your hearth side anyway.” Den Fellaemion’s sudden smile wiped away his stern expression. “Keep your breeches
laced, Temar. We are a small community and I don’t want you raising expectations or outrage by mistaking a lass’s meaning.”
Temar blushed and ran a hand through his hair. “Of course, Messire, I hadn’t been thinking—”
“No harm done.” Den Fellaemion stood suddenly and waved to someone on the far side of the harbor. “Guinalle; come and join us!”
Temar looked around to see a young woman wrapped in a blue-gray cloak picking her way carefully across the cobbles slick with spray. She was of less than common height but neatly made with an open, heart-shaped face.
“Messire, Esquire,” she greeted them each in turn before seating herself composedly on a crab trap.
“Do have something to eat.” Den Fellaemion wiped his knife on a scrap of muslin and sheathed it with a decisive gesture. “I have much to do, Guinalle; I’ll see you at seventh chime, at the colony warehouse.”
“As you wish.” The girl took some bread and felt under her cloak for her own knife.
“Let me.” Temar cut her a slice. “Cheese, ham or chicken?”
“Cheese, thank you.”
“The ham’s very good.” Temar’s knife hovered over it. “Let me cut you some.”
“Not today, thank you.” Guinalle’s tone was polite but firm. “Perhaps another time.”
She looked up to see Temar’s puzzled frown. “At the dark of both moons, I make due observance to Ostrin.”
“You’re a priestess?” Temar couldn’t think of anyone less likely to be sworn to the god of blood-letting than this mild-faced female.
“An acolyte, of Larasion, but I observe the courtesies to all the gods.” Guinalle’s self-possession did not waver and a glint of gold sparked in her warm brown eyes.
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