“You don’t think?” Elissa asked.
Tresha shrugged. “You will never be this vulnerable—this unprepared—again. If Euchor truly fears you, he might think it best to throw you in irons now, before you grow too powerful to touch.”
—
Ragen spotted a cluster of women waiting in the entrance hall. “You’re on your own for now, Ragen,” Tresha said. “Try not to make matters worse while the Mothers sort this out.”
With that, Tresha and Jone broke off, taking Elissa with them into the Mothers’ Council chambers. Ragen wondered if the next time he saw her would be at a trial.
Keerin was waiting to escort them to Euchor’s throne room. The Jongleur was back in his royal motley, tunic and loose breeches striped in blue and gray under a black velvet cloak held by a gold chain clasped with Euchor’s mountain crest. The underside of the cloak was striped with bright silk, allowing him to shift from the subdued tones Euchor favored to vibrant color with a flick of his arm.
But Keerin’s face was as somber as his outer garb. “I’m sorry about this, Ragen. I swear I didn’t know.”
Ragen clapped him on the shoulder. “Not your fault. How bad is it?”
Keerin glanced at their escort and started walking, leading them to court. He lowered his voice to a murmur. “His Grace is…displeased. He will try to intimidate you, but the Mothers’ Council is not convinced there is enough evidence to bring charges unless you incriminate yourself.”
“How do you know?” Ragen murmured in return.
“I did some snooping at home last night,” Keerin said. He was married, if unhappily, to Baroness Cate, a wealthy widow and prominent member of the Mothers’ Council.
“Wait here,” Keerin said when they reached the great doors of Euchor’s throne room. The Mountain Spears opened them just enough to admit him.
“Master Ragen, Messenger Derek Gold, and Captain Yon Gray of Hollow County!”
“Follow my lead and let me do the talking,” Ragen said as he led them in at a stately pace, showing no concern at the troubling signs.
The shutters of the throne room had been opened wide, filling the room with sunlight, no doubt to counter any magic tricks they might attempt if things failed to go their way.
Atop the dais sat Euchor, overweight and gray-haired, but still looking like he could break most men with his bare hands. It was said when the Krasian Messenger came to declare Ahmann Jardir ruler of all the world, Euchor had personally beaten the man unconscious, and pissed on him as he lay broken on the floor. Euchor wore a fur-trimmed blue cloak and gray tunic, heavy chains of gold, and rings glittering on his fingers. About his head he wore a thin circlet of gold.
To the left of the throne stood Tender Ronnell, the Royal Librarian at the head of a group of gray-bearded Tenders. Euchor didn’t control them outright, but the Royal Librarian, who served at the will of the duke, was Tender of the Great Library and Cathedral of Miln, and the head of their order.
Count Brayan, leader of the Mining and Lenders’ guilds, stood to the right, beside the other guildmasters. His receded hair was snow white, but it had been cropped close, lines giving the angular man’s face the look of craggy rock. Next to him was the sneering Vincin, his oiled goatee gone to gray, thin hair slicked straight back. Rings glittered on his chubby fingers. At his breast he wore the keyward brooch of Warders’ Guildmaster.
Next to Vincin stood Ragen’s most likely ally in the room, Malcum, master of the Messengers’ Guild. Malcum stood a head taller than the other guildmasters, all the more imposing for the patch he wore over one eye and the scars on one side of his face, evidence of a coreling attack from back in his messaging days. The guildmaster had bandaged the wounds himself and completed his run, continuing to message for years before moving into administration.
Masters of the Waste, Merchants’, Harvesters’, Masonry, and Beggars’ guilds stood clustered together, shifting nervously with the tension in the air. More than a few of them owed Ragen great sums of money.
“Welcome home, Ragen,” Euchor said. “As you have no doubt heard a thousand times since your return, all Miln owes you a debt for your services in the Krasian war.”
Ragen gave a deep bow. “You honor us, Your Grace. We knew our duty to you, and to all the people of the Free Cities, and did no less than would be expected of any in our position.”
“False modesty does not become you, Ragen,” Euchor said. “You should be proud of your accomplishments. They are the only reason I haven’t already thrown you in chains.”
Euchor meant the words to frighten them. Indeed, Yon tensed, ready to fight or flee, but Ragen relaxed. Fretting and pacing were for sunset, when the threat was still imagined. When it was dark and the demons were real, it was easier to focus.
“What reason would you have to throw me in chains, Your Grace?” Ragen asked, though he knew full well the answer. “I have always been loyal to Miln.”
“Yet you conspired with that foreign stray you dragged in from the hamlets to cheat me,” Euchor growled.
“I seem to recall meeting the boy while tax collecting in Your Grace’s name in Tibbet’s Brook,” Ragen noted. “Arlen is, by definition, Milnese.”
Euchor reddened, and Ragen was thankful his beard, grown thick on the road, masked the smile that twitched his lips. This was always Euchor’s mistake. He wanted an audience for his scoldings, but was unprepared when someone had the stones to hit back in front of his court.
“You kept his identity secret when he came to court last year,” Euchor said.
Ragen spread his hands, turning to eye the others in the room. “Who among you does not keep secrets in their family? In my years as Royal Messenger, I was privy to many of them, some far greater than this one.” He looked back to the duke. “Arlen Bales preached no sedition, stole no property, and harmed no people. His worst crime was cracking Your Grace’s floor, and I am happy to pay for that.”
“You will,” Euchor agreed, “as well as for the wards he sold me under false pretenses, made worthless by your backroom dealings.”
“Worthless, Your Grace?” Ragen asked, raising his voice until it echoed off the high ceiling. “Those wards are the reason my company made it back from Angiers alive. Those wards are the reason Hollow County grew from a hamlet smaller than Harden’s Grove to rival any of the Free Cities in barely two years. The reason the Krasians were able to leave the desert and invade the south.”
“And your apprentice sold them to me dearly,” Euchor said, “even after he had given them to you to put on the exchange.”
He was sifting for information, but Ragen made no effort to deny it. “What did Arlen ask, Your Grace? After you openly threatened to have your guards hold him down while you copied the wards from his flesh? After you ordered me to have Warders in the shadows, sketching every symbol they glimpsed?”
There were shifting feet on both sides of the throne now, and Ragen pressed the attack. “He asked only aid for Rizonan refugees, something Your Grace no doubt meant to provide, regardless.”
“I won’t be manipulated into providing for every Beggar at the border, Ragen,” Euchor growled. “I paid for those wards fairly.”
“As did every Warder I sold them to,” Ragen said.
Euchor clenched a fist. “So you admit you undercut me?”
Ragen did his best to look offended. “I admit nothing of the sort. I broke no laws, Your Grace. I came by the wards legally, and as Master of the Warders’ Guild and head of the Ward Exchange, I am licensed to broker grimoires and create warded arms and armor.”
“And now you are rich beyond measure,” Euchor sneered.
Ragen spread his hands. “Your Grace could have traded the wards on the exchange the same as I. It was your choice to lock your grimoire away in the Library and arm your men instead with flamework weapons.”
“Those flamework weapons saved Angiers and kept the Krasians from claiming everything south of the Dividing,” Count Brayan cut in.
“Indee
d,” Ragen agreed. “The Mountain Spears are formidable against the Krasians, and Creator knows, the desert rats needed the lesson. But the demons are growing in power, and wisdom dictates warding their weapons and armor for the coming war.”
“Bah!” Euchor scoffed. “By all accounts, the Hollowers and Krasians are slaughtering corelings by the thousands. It’s not surprising the survivors are stirred up a bit.”
Ragen shook his head. “It’s more than that, Your Grace. They attack with cunning now, using weapons and tactics like I’ve never seen after decades on the road. Intelligence from Countess Paper of the Hollow suggests we’ve barely seen a fraction of what the Core can spew forth.”
“The woman is a heretic,” Euchor cut in. “Their Tenders have broken from Northern orthodoxy and formed their own council, and the countess exceeded her power in appointing that fool apostate Jona as Shepherd. They worship your dead apprentice as Deliverer, though all he delivered was war with the desert rats and a worsening of the Plague.”
“Ent like that.” Yon seemed surprised that his growl echoed so in the great chamber, but his face hardened as all eyes turned to him.
Euchor smiled. “By all means, Captain Yon. Educate us.”
“Easy to call people ya never met fakes an’ frauds,” Yon said. “Easy to sit safe in yur warded mountain keep, thousand miles from the Hollow, an’ judge. None of ya were there, when our Gatherer died and the Hollowers fell sick. When the fires started, and the demons broke through the wards. I lived in Cutter’s Hollow over eighty years, knew every one of its three hundred forty-seven people. Watched as an old cripple as half the people I knew fell around me. Demons in the houses and dancing in the street.”
He stepped forward, and the passion in his voice had attention rapt. Even Euchor was silent, caught in the tale. “Last building standing was the Holy House, and Jona took us all in. His leg was broke, but he never rested, hobbling around on crutches, tending the sick like a Gatherer. Tellin’ us all wern’t lost. That the Creator had a plan.”
Yon shook his head. “Din’t believe it. No one did. Thought that mornin’ would be my last. But then Arlen Bales rode into town with Leesha Paper and Rojer Inn. Told us to quit feelin’ sorry and sack up. That if we stood our ground, we could pull through. And because of them, we did.”
His eyes scanned the room. “Don’t believe all the Jongleur’s tales? Ay, heard one said I was ten feet tall. But ent no denying that in two years since, we went from a town with less’n two hundred on their feet to a county with more folk than any of the Free Cities I been to.”
Ragen eyed the Royal Librarian as Yon spoke, looking for some sign beneath his detached façade that Yon’s words were getting to him. That he might be the ally Arlen hoped.
“Ya may not believe Arlen Bales is the Deliverer. Get that. Din’t see it myself, I might not, either. But I seen it. I seen him hangin’ in the air, glowin’ like the sun, throwing fire and lightning at the corespawn. That ent the rippin’ Deliverer, don’t know what is.”
There were murmurs throughout the court, and Ragen gave it time to sink in. Euchor looked at Ronnell, as if willing him to rebut the story, but the Librarian kept his eyes down, silent as the old men behind him quietly debated.
Ragen stepped into the silence. “I knew Arlen Bales as well as any, but I leave theology for the Tenders to argue, safe in their Holy Houses behind warded walls. I’ve spent my life out in the naked night and see the threat more clearly. Calling it a plague changes nothing. We have weapons to fight the corelings, and we should be putting them in every hand able to wield them.”
“And lining your pockets in the process?” Euchor asked. “You control both ends of production, so it’s in your interest to exaggerate the threat. You’re lucky I don’t confiscate every weapon you’ve made with your illegal wards.”
Guildmaster Malcum cleared his throat, turning all eyes his way.
Euchor raised a brow. “You have something to add, Malcum?”
The Messengers’ Guildmaster took the invitation to leave his place with the other guildmasters, striding over to stand beside Ragen. “The Messengers’ Guild has bought those weapons fairly, Your Grace. You seem to forget it is our lives at risk in the night, delivering your missives, escorting your caravans, facilitating all trade in your city. We pressed Your Grace to share the wards when Arlen Bales sold them to you, and were met with delay after delay, even as demon attacks increased on the road. Now we have the tools to protect ourselves, and we will not give them up.”
Euchor’s visage darkened at the rebellious tone, his voice quiet, dangerous. “You admit to complicity in Ragen’s crime?”
“There has been no crime,” Malcum said. “We bought wards legally on the exchange, and commissioned arms and armor legally from the Warders’ Guild. You have no right to confiscate anything. Attempt to do so and every Messenger in the city will strike.”
A stunned silence fell over the court at that. Without Messengers, vital city services would stagger to a halt, and everyone in the room would feel it in their purses.
“The Warders’ Guild, as well,” Ragen added.
“You no longer speak for the Warders, Ragen,” Guildmaster Vincin sneered. “You gave up that right when you abandoned your post. I am guildmaster now.”
“A guildmaster who cannot call a meeting without being voted from office,” Ragen countered. “I appreciate you filling in during my absence, Vincin, but you cannot prevent my return to power forever. I control the exchange.”
Vincin scowled, but Ragen was right. Vincin could stall on procedural issues, but with news of Ragen’s return spreading through the city, the guildsmen would soon force his hand.
“Documents were filed this morning granting Derek Gold a seat for life on the Warding Exchange, as well as twenty-one percent of my warding business, glasseries, and warehouses,” Ragen pressed his advantage. “I’ve invited him and his family to stay in my manse until Derek can build one of his own.”
“A kind offer, Ragen, but unnecessary.” Count Brayan smiled, but it was strained. The news had caught him off guard. “My cousin is quite comfortable in my keep.”
Derek stepped forward. “I thank you, my lord, but we have prevailed upon your generosity long enough. We’ll be transitioning immediately to a place of our own.”
“It isn’t your decision, Merchant,” Brayan said. “Stasy and Jef are Noble-born, accustomed to life and society you can never give them.”
“They are my wife, my son,” Derek said.
Brayan bared his teeth. “They are a young virgin you raped and a bastard better-blooded than his father. You may have convinced her to marry you and drag your filthy carcass from Servant class, but you are not worthy of her and never were. Where have you been, as your son was grown and raised? Off gallivanting.”
Malcum crossed his arms. “Gallivanting? Is that how you see the Messengers’ work, my lord?”
“Derek is no rapist,” Ragen said. “The gall, to spill such lies in His Grace’s court.”
“I won’t be bullied by an absentee guildmaster, or an absentee father,” Brayan snapped. “Strike, if you must. And let all your workers know their wages are being lost over the poor Royal forced to endure silk and luxury in her family home.”
“Weave whatever lies you wish, my lord,” Derek growled, “you cannot keep my wife and child prisoner against their will.”
Count Brayan snorted, turning to look at the duke. Euchor threw up his hand as if waving off a stench. “Spare me your family dramas. This is Mothers’ Council business. Take it up with them.”
—
“Were you part of Arlen Bales’ conspiracy against the throne?” Mother Jone stopped her pacing and met Elissa’s eyes.
The inquiry had gone on for hours, Mothers pressing Elissa for details on everything from Arlen’s childhood to her experiences in Lakton during the war. Tresha sat quietly at Elissa’s side the entire time, straight-backed and stone-faced. Count Brayan’s wife, Countess Mother Cera, he
ld the Speaker’s gavel in the interim.
Now they were finally getting to the meat of things.
“Don’t answer that.” Tresha put a hand on Elissa’s arm as if she were a child who might run into the street. “Point of order,” Tresha added to the room. “No conspiracy has been proven.”
There were nods from many councilors, scowls from others. For once in her life, Elissa was thankful for her mother’s hand on her arm. This place was more dangerous than any busy street, and Tresha had the respect—if not the allegiance—of every woman here.
“Sustained.” Cera’s face was sour as she banged the gavel. Cera and Jone were of like mind, but even at synced purpose they couldn’t break council rules and precedents. At least, not so long as Tresha held a narrow majority of votes.
“Of course.” Jone was unfazed. The seed had been planted. “Allow me to rephrase. Did you know Arlen Bales was the Warded Man before his meeting with the duke?”
Tresha’s hand tightened on her arm, but Elissa felt herself sit a bit taller. She would not lie in council, or deny her adopted son, whatever happened.
“I did,” she said. “Arlen Bales was my adopted son. He revealed himself to me soon after his return to Miln.”
There were murmurs in the crowd at that. Tresha did not seem pleased with the response, but she said nothing.
“You admit to deceiving His Grace?” Jone pressed.
“Deceiving how?” Elissa replied. “I am a Merchant Mother with no place on His Grace’s court. If you did not see fit to properly screen a petitioner before admitting him to court, I don’t see how it is my responsibility.”
“Perfect.” Tresha’s grip eased with the whisper.
“But your husband is a member of His Grace’s court, is he not?” Jone asked.
“Of course.” Elissa could see where this was going.
“And was Guildmaster Ragen present when Arlen Bales revealed himself to you?” Jone asked.
“No,” Elissa said.
Jone frowned. “But he was aware…”
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