Who, then, could affect such a rescue, and pressure Jurillic into a vote at the next Council meeting? It would take a vast amount of resources, and skilled rescuers. Fighting men could fall right and left in an operation like that, but Warlocks were trained and experienced in such missions.
Why the fund, though? Why set up an extra trove of money for the Council? D’Jenn started to see some of the pieces come together. He tried to think as if he were in Victus’s place.
Here I am, he thought, decades old in my duty, and simmering at all the injustice I see. I’m the leader of a dangerous faction of wizards, and in a position to do a lot of dangerous, expensive favors. I want influence in order to secure the vote for Mekai, and I need political unrest in order to muddy the waters, and open the door for my ascension.
But why the fund?
Nyra Jurillic would be in the city, as the Council of Seven wrestled with the issue of the Galanians. She was the one person who could confirm for him whether his suspicions about Victus were true. He couldn’t go and request an audience, though—it would leave a trail, and Victus would learn of it. Getting to Jurillic would require finesse.
D’Jenn rose from the floor, grabbed his cloak, and headed out the door.
**
“They do exist, I can promise you that,” Dormael said. “There’s a vast swath of the Stormy Sea full of the things, and they’ll suck a ship right down to the bottom. Just look on a map. It’s called the Maelstrom Field.”
The barmaid smiled. “Come now, that can’t be true. You’re just trying to impress me with all the big, amazing things you’ve seen. Your sort are always coming in here, trying to convince me that they’re all handsome adventurers.”
“I don’t have to convince you of anything—I’m a handsome adventurer no matter what some beautiful woman thinks about it,” Dormael said, taking another pull from the firewine. It burned on the way down, and left a sweet taste in his mouth. The bottle was almost halfway gone, and most of it into Dormael’s cup. His aches and pains were beginning to fade into the background, and his vision was taking on a comfortable, hazy quality.
“So I’m a beautiful woman, am I?”
“Do you need a handsome adventurer to tell you so?”
“It’s nice to hear,” she laughed. “Are you going to finish that entire bottle?”
“I could be persuaded to share with a beautiful woman, especially in a more intimate setting.”
“Such as one of the upstairs rooms?” she asked.
“If you prefer one of those rooms, that’s fine by me. It does sound convenient.” Dormael gave her a sideways wink as he took another pull from the bottle.
The barmaid let out a peal of silvery laughter.
“No, honey. I’m not for sale.”
“Who said I was offering to pay?”
She slapped him on the shoulder, and gave him a kiss on the cheek as she rose from her seat. She moved down the bar to serve the other two patrons, leaving Dormael alone with his bottle. More customers trickled into the taproom, showing Dormael quick glances of the rainy afternoon. The smell of the incense was pleasant, and the drink had relaxed him.
He turned from the bar and shambled over to a velvet couch, covered in garish bolts of purple and crimson. The colors were jarring to the eye, but the half-dressed women lounging around the taproom were a much more pleasant sight. He smiled at them, but indicated with his expression that he didn’t want to be bothered. As much as he enjoyed flirting, when he thought of buying a whore for the evening, Shawna’s voice popped into his mind.
I see, she would say. That’s exactly what I would have expected.
His thoughts were full of the memory of her skin, and the taste of her. She had been silent on the whole thing, and Dormael dared not press her to remember. There were times that he found himself searching her eyes for any recognition, any acknowledgment, any hint that the fire she had shown him was lurking beneath the surface. The woman, as always, was inscrutable.
Probably wants nothing to do with an idiot like you. She said it herself—you’re terrible.
Dormael’s eyes went to the door as it opened to the rain outside, and he almost choked on his drink.
A woman stood outlined by the rain, squinting around the darkened taproom. She was diminutive, and pretty in a way that kept a man wondering what it was that made her outshine buxom beauties of half again her height. She had amber colored eyes that gave her face a fey quality, and soft, enchanting features. She was wrapped in a large Sevenlander cloak, which looked out of place on her small frame, especially since she had the hood drawn all the way up to cover her hair. Dormael knew that she would have a wealth of raven locks concealed within that hood. As their eyes met, Dormael felt pinned to the spot.
He’d thought she was dead.
“Inera?”
The word escaped before he knew he’d spoken. She looked to him, and for a moment, Dormael thought he was hallucinating. Maybe his magic was destroying his mind after all. Maybe Lacelle had been right about him.
Her eyes conveyed a thousand emotions in a few fleeting seconds. Longing, regret, anger, shame, and confusion all shot through her eyes like lightning. When the moment was over, her expression settled into something unreadable. As he sat with his mouth agape, she rushed back into the rain, slamming the door in her wake. His heart dropped into his stomach.
“Inera, wait!” Dormael shouted, scrambling up from his seat.
Heedless of the rain, he rushed after her.
**
D’Jenn moved through the city like a ghost.
He didn’t need to use his magic to blend in, he only needed ingenuity. Nondescript clothing, a bit of dirt on the face, a dejected, uninterested expression, and the deed was done—he was nothing but an everyday laborer. He flowed with the river of people through the streets of Ishamael, making his way to the official holdings of the Tasha-Mal. The pace of the crowd was slow for his taste, but he endured it with patience.
For all he knew, Victus may be having him watched.
The holdings of the Tasha-Mal were on the far end of the West Market, alongside the holdings of the other Sevenlander tribes. Mals were less plentiful in Ishamael than in Mistfall, where the trade was more profitable. D’Jenn spotted a few here and there, marked out by their tattoos, wild hair, and menacing appearance against the backdrop of farmers, craftsmen, and artisans from other tribes. The Mals were a fierce lot.
He made the holdings by early afternoon, and ducked into an alleyway across the street from edge of the district. He waited for some time, watching the passersby and waiting for anyone following to make the mistake of appearing. They did not.
D’Jenn slipped out of the alley and joined a smaller throng of people entering the Mal district. There were a few shops and traders scattered inside—mostly for weapons and religious curios, which the Mals favored for charms—but the majority of the district was given over to house the tribal leadership and its retinue. As the kansil was in attendance, there were more than a few Mal warriors walking the streets, conversing with each other in boisterous tones. D’Jenn avoided these as much as possible, and made his way to the offices of the kansil.
The building was a large one, though unadorned in comparison with many others in Ishamael. It was two stories high, encircled by a low stone wall, and plastered over in white. There was no gate, however, only two guards standing by the entrance to the compound. The Mals didn’t live in buildings back home, and they found the walls more than a little oppressive. A large fire burned within the walled courtyard, and D’Jenn could hear muddled conversation and laughter issuing from around it. He decided to move around to the back side of the compound.
It was more difficult than he had anticipated to sneak through the district of the Mals. While they were not big on subterfuge, the Mal warriors were always alert, and ready to fight. They lived in a constant state of warfare with the Rashardians, and that made them more than a little jumpy. D’Jenn could handle them if a problem aro
se, but the last thing he wanted to do was attack one of his own countrymen, or answer any questions about what he was doing there. He came close to being seen a time or two, but finally made his way around to the rear of the building.
He waited for a few minutes to see if any guards were going to walk by. When they did not, he checked to see if anyone was looking, and slipped over the edge of the wall. His feet hit the grass on the other side without a sound, and he rushed to the wall of the building.
D’Jenn opened his Kai, and wove a spell into his clothing—a simple suggestion to look elsewhere. He would remain visible, so the spell was dangerous, but it should serve his purposes for getting inside. Splitting his consciousness, he used the climbing spell he’d taught Dormael in Ferolan, and started scaling the wall.
The entire time he was stuck to the side of the building, he felt as if a cry would raise at any moment. Perhaps some maid would be looking out her window from across the way, see him climbing like a spider along the wall, and scream. Perhaps one of the Mals would come around the building and start chucking pointy things in his direction.
His climb, though, went by in silence.
Reaching a top floor window—with no glass in the frame—he slipped over the side and into an empty room. It was dark, but the door had nothing hanging over the portal but a multitude of beads. Footsteps sounded from the hallway, and D’Jenn slipped to the wall and flattened his body, waiting for the steps to fade. He held his breath as they retreated, and only relaxed after they were gone.
Now—where is Nyra Jurillic?
He closed his eyes, and sent his magical senses questing out through the building.
D’Jenn could sense four other people on this floor with him—two in one room at the far end of the hall, and two others in separate rooms. If he had known Jurillic, he might have been able to tell which one she was, but her presence was unknown to his senses. He would have to take a risk.
Cursing, he used his magic to muffle the sound of the beads and ducked into the hallway.
The interior of the building was decorated with a surprising amount of colorful scarves. They weren’t tapestries, but diaphanous bands of fabric in wild hues of red, purple, and blue. Even in the still air of the hallway, the fabric waved as if in a ghostly breeze. He crept to the room at the end of the hall, and stopped short of the opening.
Scattered conversation made its way to his ears—a man and a woman.
“…the clan leaders will not call the Summit next year,” the man was saying. “I have heard no talk of deposing you, just whispers in the wake of…well, you know.”
“I know,” the woman grumbled. “Lot of gods-damned ungrateful cowards that they are. Two years ago they would have fought each other for the chance to join my hunting party, now they squabble over the remains of my corpse. Tell those bastards I’m not a corpse yet, by the gods, and they will feel every inch of my wrath for their disloyalty.”
“Nyra—”
“No, Benten, you listen to me. I want to know who. I want to know where these whispers are coming from. I will challenge them in the circle for their words—know that for truth!”
“They will vote you down for this.”
“Let them,” the woman said. “If they think another is strong enough to lead, then let them. I will return to my own clan, and live happily with my family. They can have this kansil business, the politics, all of it! Let another dance with the snakes on the Council and see how the venom feels.”
D’Jenn had hoped to be able to get to Nyra Jurillic when she was alone, but he knew it had been a slim hope. He was loathe to use his magic on the man in the room, but he couldn’t see an alternative. Every moment he was in the building, the danger of discovery increased.
Apologies, friend.
Reaching out with his Kai, he brushed his magic across the mind of the man speaking to Jurillic, and put him to sleep. D’Jenn had to put a bit of force behind the spell in order to send the man into unconsciousness, as his mind was alert and involved in a conversation. He’d probably wake with a headache, but that would be the worst of it. A muted thump sounded from the room.
“Benten? Benten, are you alright?”
D’Jenn didn’t give her a chance to raise an alarm. He took a deep breath, and ducked through the beads, using his magic to muffle the noise. Nyra Jurillic was a lithe woman, all whipcord muscles and hard expressions, though her hair was going to silver. She had a knife in hand before he got all the way into the room, and had put her back to a corner. Her eyes shot from D’Jenn to the slumped form of Benten.
“Kansil Jurillic,” D’Jenn said, holding up his hands for peace. “I mean no harm! I only want to talk.”
Jurillic had the gaze of a predator, and it was locked to D’Jenn’s eyes.
“You’re no dockworker—or whatever costume that is supposed to be.”
“No,” he admitted.
“You work for the Conclave,” she said, rising from her fighting crouch and spiriting her knife away. “You are Blessed.”
“Even so,” D’Jenn nodded. “I wanted to ask—”
“Ask?” she spat. “You wanted to ask nothing. You and your master can go to the Void. We made one deal—a single deal—and I have paid for it every day since. There will be no more. My son…my son is a broken creature, a whipped dog. You brought him back, and I am thankful—but we are done. Get out, unless you plan to kill me. Do not think that I didn’t notice the death of Berrul’s brother. I am not blind to your scheming.”
D’Jenn was stunned.
That confirms it, then. Someone in the Conclave was doing favors.
Jurillic had just implicated that person in a murder, as well. D’Jenn made an effort to school his expression to blandness. He felt like sitting down, but he couldn’t betray his disguise.
“If you are going to do it, then say so now. I will not go peacefully,” she growled.
“There will be no killing,” D’Jenn said, coming back to himself. “I trust you’ve told no one?”
Now that she had played her hand, he had no need to reveal his own truth to her. Instead, he could use this lever to gather more information. People had a tendency to fill in the gaps in their knowledge with assumptions, and if left to their own fanciful musings, would deceive themselves. Dormael had mentioned it to Shawna back in Borders, and had called it the silence effect.
D’Jenn had always thought of it as the stupid effect.
“You question my honor?” she spat. “My son knows. The two who brought him back know. Your master knows, and you know. My husband knew, but he went to the Void last year.”
“And the Council of Seven? Who else knows on the Council?” he asked.
“I have not betrayed you to the Council,” she said. “Neither have any of the others your master has manipulated. I can see his influence at work. It is of no moment, in any case. I will be deposed, and far beyond your reach. You will need to find another puppet to dance under your strings. If that is all you came for, then get out.”
D’Jenn had everything he needed—or everything he could get and maintain his disguise, in any case. He gave the woman a tense smile, and turned to leave the way he had come.
“I will look over my shoulder for you,” she said to his back. “I will not be taken in my sleep like an animal. Tell your master that. If he wants to kill me, he’d best come at me from the front!”
D’Jenn ignored her and made his way back outside. There were only two Blessed in all of Ishamael who had the resources to send other wizards on dangerous missions. One of them was the Mekai, whose involvement would make no logical sense.
That left only one possibility—Victus Tiranan.
**
Rain poured into the streets as Dormael shouldered through the throng of people choking the East Market. The firewine had dulled his wits and slowed his reactions, so he ran into people amid shouts of protest and curses, and even once went sprawling onto the wet cobbles in his haste. He would catch fleeting glances of Inera
in the distance, just enough to keep him on the chase.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid…,” he muttered, shaking his head as he struggled in pursuit. It had been years since he’d seen Inera—and, in fact, their parting had been tumultuous. He’d assumed that she’d died, a victim of the Galanian invasion of her homeland. His heart pounded with how wrong he had been, driving the point deeper into his bones with each beat.
Guilt wracked him. Perhaps he should have searched harder for her, should have torn apart occupied Neleka until he found her, and to the Six Hells with the political consequences. He’d been forbidden to do just that, even though a large part of him had wanted it. He lost something of himself after her death, escaping for a time to travel the world as a vagabond in self-imposed exile. Who knew what horrors Inera had lived through? Finding him at the Headless Dancer was a fitting ending to her journey—it exposed him for the wretch that he was.
“Inera! Wait!” he called. She threw a quick glance over her shoulder, and he caught the slightest glimpse of pain-filled eyes before she slipped down an alleyway. Dormael rushed after her, weaving through the sea of people to reach her. Thunder rumbled overhead as he followed her into the alley.
**
D’Jenn made his way through the Conclave grounds, trying to think his way through his next move. If Victus was using Warlocks to buy votes on the Council—and possibly to kill for them—then there must be a reason. What possible reason, though, could he have?
D’Jenn cursed himself for not keeping up with what had been happening in the past year. If he had some greater context of Council decisions and events at home, he might be able to piece together a more complete picture of what was going on. As it was, his scant information was just enough to lever an accusation, and nothing else. He needed proof.
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