The Iron Ring

by Auston Habershaw

  Fariq, stiff as a board, made a hasty and terrified decision. “You will come with me. Do not stray from the path, for not all of the passages in the Hanim’s sumptuous and impeccable abode are safe.”

  Looking over his shoulder every five seconds to ensure they were behind him (and that no one else saw), Fariq hastily ushered Tyvian and Carlo to a different door than the one they stood before and up a plush-­carpeted staircase that led to what Tyvian guessed would be the third floor of the compound. Then they traveled through a series of winding halls and interlocking doors that were as labyrinthine as they were impressive. Colorful mosaics adorned the walls, each room tastefully decorated with porcelain vases and intricately woven rugs, and each door uniquely carved wood with gold inlay. Finally, Fariq led them into an airy enclosed veranda filled with expensive cushions, glowing feylamps clad in brass, and one chamber pot, also of brass, which had been placed prominently at the center of the room. Before Tyvian could compliment Fariq on his choice for their repose, the slavemaster had closed the door behind them. He heard it lock with a heavy clunk—­a mechanical lock, and a heavy-­duty one at that.

  Carlo immediately recovered and threw himself down on a pile of cushions. “I really hate doing that, you know. Inducing nausea isn’t like faking a blush.”

  Tyvian went to the wooden lattice that enclosed their veranda from the air beyond. He found himself looking down at a long rectangular courtyard. He could tell immediately from the green grass and the vibrant flowers resting along the banks of a reflecting pool that it was sorcerously abjured against the cold. In it he saw a pair of mark-­slaves standing guard on either side of a large door, just as impressive and stationary as all the others they had seen since arriving. It looked as though this door led to the street outside. He grunted. “The Hanim certainly takes her security seriously.”

  Carlo waved off Tyvian’s comment. “Bah—­at least half of those slaves are illusions. Possibly two-­thirds. I don’t know how much you look into the slave markets—­”

  “Not at all,” Tyvian spat.

  Carlo raised an eyebrow. “Well pardon me—­I didn’t realize you were clad in all white tonight, Your Holiness. In any case, a true mark-­slave, especially the bodyguard types you see around here, costs more than your whole flat. Even an Imperial House like the Theliaras are unlikely to own more than a ­couple dozen of them. Some of those chaps might just be regular slaves but painted up to look like they are marked.”

  “That eye of yours see anything interesting around here?”

  Carlo shrugged. “Wards and illusions are all over the place, so it’s difficult to tell—­you didn’t think this place naturally looks like some queenie pleasure palace, did you? Suffice to say that the clearest thing I can see is the layout at the party you have delayed us from. The food looks scrumptious, and it’s getting cold. How long do we have to wait?”

  “At least fifteen minutes. Who else is at the party?”

  “A ­couple guildsmen who look terrified, a brace of Eretherian ladies with a young knight escorting, a ­couple turbaned Kalsaari merchants—­nothing exceptional.”

  “The Hanim?”

  “Has yet to appear.”

  “Good. She wants to make an entrance. Let’s just make sure to make one just before her.”

  Carlo snorted. “How will we know when that is?”

  “You will have to rely on my years of fine breeding, Carlo. Trust me—­we’ll be fine.”

  Carlo sighed and rearranged himself among the cushions. He eyed the chamber pot. “I imagine I should vomit in that, just to keep up appearances.”

  “Nonsense. I’ll not appear at an exclusive party with a fat Verisi stinking of vomit.”

  Carlo scowled. “It was your story, remember?”

  “That ruse was designed to fool Fariq, not anybody else. I don’t give a damn if he finds out we were lying. If anything, that ought to enhance our reputation with the Hanim.”

  “I thought you didn’t know very much about her,” Carlo smirked.

  “I don’t, but I have dealt with Kalsaaris before—­more often than you, it seems.” Tyvian peered at the courtyard. “Though my contacts tend to be less powerful than this, and certainly less wealthy.”

  “Smugglers.”

  “For all the sophistication of their sorcery, the use of magic in Kalsaar is restricted as the sole province of the nobility. If you aren’t a pasha or a sultan or an emir or some such, you have no business touching the stuff. The penalty is . . .”

  Carlo rolled his eyes. “Death, I know. That’s the bastards’ punishment for everything.” He sighed. “Varner was right—­we should have kept going. We had them by the balls at Tasis, and that damned Prince Marik had to—­”

  “Carlo, are you waxing historical again?”

  Carlo grunted. “History is important.”

  “That may be, but it is also most unbecoming. It shows your age.”

  Carlo opened his mouth to reply but closed it again when a series of stomach-­shaking booms came from the courtyard below. Tyvian’s eyes darted immediately to their source, and he called Carlo over, gesturing that he should remain quiet. The Verisi crept closer, and they both looked down at the grand door in the courtyard that led to the street. Someone was knocking—­someone very insistent.

  BOOM BOOM BOOM. Tyvian concluded that whoever or whatever was knocking had to be as strong as a draft horse to get that kind of reverberation out of a door that big. A few moments later Fariq appeared, wringing his hands, a small party of slaves with him. He ordered the door opened.

  An armed party of men in the black-­and-­silver livery of Dellor loped across the threshold like a pack of hungry dogs. They were led by an armored giant of a man in a wolf’s-­head helm who was holding an iron maul that had to weigh at least thirty pounds. The final member of their party swept through the door with, Tyvian noted, his usual mix of flippancy and nervous energy. It was Zazlar Hendrieux, dressed in his best, a great cape of black fur draped from his sloping shoulders.

  “This means trouble,” Carlo whispered. “We should leave now.”

  Tyvian tsked through his teeth. “I’m disappointed again, Carlo. Don’t you want to get some information firsthand for a change? What happened to your sense of adventure?”

  “If by ‘adventure’ you mean ‘do I want to witness you murder Hendrieux in the house of a Kalsaari Hanim’? then I can assure you my appetite for such things is quite sated, thank you.”

  “Shhh!” Tyvian hissed, and leaned his ear as close to the lattice of the veranda as he could. “You’ve got the magic eye—­read some lips. What are they saying?”

  “The slimy little stooge is offering the apologies of his mistress for not personally meeting Hendrieux . . .”

  “The other slimy little stooge . . .”

  “ . . . for their business tonight—­apparently they have some kind of arrangement. Fariq is . . . Great gods . . .”

  “What?” Tyvian prodded.

  “He’s offering them the Hanim’s hospitality for the evening. Bloody Hendrieux and his henchmen are coming to the party!”

  “Really?” Tyvian couldn’t help but gasp. “That’s incredible!”

  “We ought to get out of here.” Carlo stepped back from the lattice and knocked on the door. “We can just tell them I’m too sick to stay.”

  “Not on your life! Miss a chance to parade myself before Hendrieux? You’re mad!”

  “Tyvian, I—­”

  Tyvian held up the empty chamber pot. “Besides, you forgot to vomit in here.”

  The door opened, revealing a veiled female slave in diaphanous clothing who bowed deeply. Carlo cleared his throat, “Yes, I—­”

  Tyvian shouldered past him. “He is feeling much better. Which way to the party?”

  The party was held in an expansive indoor garden that lay spread out beneath a d
omed canopy of pure mageglass construction. Among the exotic tropical plants and pleasantly bubbling brooks and ponds were scattered about three dozen cages containing a wide variety of exotic animals, from winged, rainbow-­tailed coatl serpents to one-­eyed, bat-­faced cavern trolls, their thick, black-­nailed claws clutching the bars as though they understood the meaning of their imprisonment. Wandering among this menagerie were five hundred guests showcasing the finest fashions from a half-­dozen nations. Tyvian found it consistent with what Carlo had said about the local obsession with Her Opulence that the majority of the Hanim’s guests were from the West, outnumbering the Kalsaari guests at a ratio of three-­to-­one. Eretherians, Akrallians, and even countrymen from his native Saldor gathered in loose clumps around the firepits, all of them trying to find dignified ways to eat chunks of grilled meat and sautéed vegetables off skewers without getting sauce all over their fingers. Slaves, as it turned out, were usually necessary for this process, and it seemed that everybody had some half-­naked Kalsaari stuffing food down their throats for them. Tyvian watched this and supposed that when this much pampering was being offered, deep-­seeded political and ethnic rivalries could be temporarily forgotten. Either that or the whole place was crawling with spies. Or both.

  Yes, probably both.

  He let Carlo go mingle—­by which Carlo meant “eat”—­but kept himself to the periphery of the party, largely unnoticed, until he could find the key players. The Hanim had yet to appear, that was certain, but Fariq could be seen bustling around and socializing in his mechanical fashion, serving in his apparent capacity as the Hanim’s public face. There were a few prominent guild members and the Lord Mayor was in attendance, the latter seated on a fat cushion that just managed to eclipse the size of his prodigious rear end and flanked by a half-­dozen city watchmen. Tyvian, though, couldn’t have cared less about the city’s ostensible “rulers,” since the only real ruler in this city didn’t speak and was parsed out in little disks of precious metal. That really only left three ­people at the party he was at all interested in: Hendrieux and the two bald, tattooed old Kalsaaris chatting with him around a firepit placed discreetly behind a copse of palm trees. It was a less central location than he would have wanted, but it would have to do.

  Tyvian made a direct line through the crowd toward Hendrieux’s secluded conference, brushing past Eretherian ladies in massive gowns and brushing aside Saldorian lords in their capes and velvet waistcoats. He picked a few pockets, collecting a half-­dozen heavy gold marks in the palm of one hand, and then wrapped them tightly in a bit of wide silk ribbon he deftly pulled out of an Akrallian lady’s elaborate whalebone bustle. Each time he nabbed a trinket from another half-­drunk party guest, the ring cut into his flesh, making him grimace. He had to remember to play his cards right tonight—­the Iron Ring could ruin everything if he wasn’t careful.

  As he got closer to Hendrieux, he saw one of the Akrallian’s Delloran guards standing at the edge of the meeting, keeping watch and making sure no one eavesdropped or interfered. The man had sharp eyes and picked Tyvian out at thirty paces. Good—­what he had planned would be easier if the bodyguard were facing him directly.

  Carlo was standing next to him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m going to talk with Hendrieux.”

  “Do you really think his man there is going to let you?”

  Tyvian grinned. “Don’t worry, Carlo—­he’s been disarmed.”

  Carlo snorted. “He’s six feet tall and probably weighs two hundred pounds. He doesn’t need weapons.”

  “You never have faith in my abilities, do you?”

  They moved together through the crowd. As they got closer, Carlo let the distance between them grow. “Your abilities are exactly what I’m worried about. Remember our deal!”

  “Don’t worry—­I remember,” Tyvian hissed, mostly under his breath. He was only about five paces from the guard.

  The Delloran put up a gauntleted hand. “Private discussion. Move along.”

  Tyvian hefted the ribbon-­wrapped pound of gold and threw it as hard as he could into the Delloran man’s eye. It struck home with a satisfying smack and the guard reflexively put his hands up to his bruised eyeball. In that instant, Tyvian kicked him in the groin so hard the man could only produce a whistling moan as he fell on his side. The ring throbbed with displeasure, but not enough to break Tyvian’s stride.

  He stepped over the bodyguard’s moaning form and plopped himself on a cushion right next to his former partner. He popped his most winning grin. “Hello, Zaz.”

  Hendrieux’s mouth dropped open as though it were unhinged. He sputtered but no coherent words formed.

  Tyvian decided to fill the silence. “Turns out your men don’t actually know what I look like. Rather sloppy of you, I must say.” He sighed at Hendrieux’s ink-­stained fingers. “Then again, you always did have poor judgment.”

  Hendrieux looked at the armored giant of a man who had led the party into the Hanim’s palace. “Gallo! Get him out of here!”

  Tyvian held up a hand. “Now now—­I’ve no intention of disrupting your little meeting.” Tyvian looked at the two bald Kalsaaris, “Hello. My name’s Tyvian, and Zaz here was an old business partner of mine. On a related note, I should warn you that he has a tendency to betray his business partners.”

  If the two Kalsaaris were bothered by this, they didn’t show it. Their eyes, Tyvian noted, were almost reptilian in color and shape, and their skin was brown, dry, and creased, like sun-­baked leather. Their fingers were long, thin, and covered in the small scars and stains of artisans who worked in delicate, dangerous crafts.

  Hendrieux gave Tyvian a weak grin that did little to hide the panic in his eyes. “Tyv, I realize you must be angry, but—­”

  Tyvian shook his head. “You’re trying to explain yourself, but the simple fact is, Zaz, I don’t care why you stabbed me in the back. I don’t care what riches Sahand offered to pay you or why—­all I care about is that you double-­crossed me when I had been nothing but straight with you. We made a lot of money together, you and I. We built names for each other. I was even fair with the profits. Your forty percent was more than sufficient to sustain your . . .” Tyvian sneered Hendrieux’s fur cape and out-­of-­fashion boots. “ . . . lifestyle.”

  The two Kalsaaris exchanged glances and muttered to one another in their language. One of them rose as if to leave. Hendrieux leapt to his feet. “No, wait!”

  Tyvian got up more slowly. “Yes, please stay; I’ll be on my way. I just wanted to pass along a little message.” He put an arm around Hendrieux and pulled him close so he could whisper in his ear. “Run, you little weasel. Flee like the mincing coward you are. Cower in dirty corners. Surround yourself with Sahand’s best troops, if you must, but I will find you and I will destroy you, and when I am finished the whole world will pass by your crushed remains and know what happens to cheap thugs when they try to dupe their betters.”

  Hendrieux laughed faintly. “Well . . . we’ll see.”

  Tyvian executed a smart half-­bow. “See you tomorrow, Zaz.”

  A heavy gauntlet fell on Tyvian’s shoulder and he was spun around to see the hard face and blackened eye of the guard he had taken down moments before, his fist cocked back to throw a punch that would level a cow. Even as Tyvian winced to take the blow, he found himself most disappointed that the Delloran’s quick recovery had spoiled such a fine exit.

  The punch, though, never fell. Gongs were sounding and horns were blowing, and suddenly the Delloran was standing at attention. Tyvian saw that all of the assembled guests were coming to their feet and turning their attention to the same place. Losing no time slipping away from the angry guard, he found Carlo and took up position beside him.

  “I trust that went well?” Carlo snarled.

  Tyvian nodded. “I still have all my teeth.”

  Carlo rolled h
is good eye. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “This is a party, Carlo—­we’re supposed to be having fun.”

  Carlo snorted. “No, we’re supposed to be making a deal. Focus now—­the Hanim approaches.”

  Massive gilded doors at one end of the hall were pulled open, revealing a hallway beyond plated in pure gold and lit by ebony lanterns in the shape of the Imperial Raptor of Kalsaar. At the center of this hall, carried aloft in a sedan chair, was Angharad tin’Theliara Hanim of the Imperial House of Theliara.

  Tyvian immediately forgot the little confrontation with Hendrieux as his mind was overridden with other, more pressing thoughts. The Hanim possessed a kind of beauty he had never seen before—­dusky, intense, powerful. She sat with the bearing of a queen in her thronelike chair, carried by four burly slaves who strained under the weight of its jeweled frame. Her face was thin and angular, with high cheekbones and full lips, her black hair spilling freely across her delicate shoulders in gleaming waves. Her eyes were yellow, like gold, and they swept across her guests as though she were a raptor herself, looking for a likely mouse to snatch up. Her hands and wrists dripped with rubies and gold that matched her long silk gown, and her fingers each had a bloodred fingernail two inches long—­the sign of a woman who never needed to work.

  Carlo elbowed Tyvian in the ribs. “Stop staring at her.”

  “The hell I will,” Tyvian breathed. “She’s incredible.”

  “She can have us tortured and killed with a flick of her eyelash,” Carlo hissed in his ear.

  Tyvian cocked an eyebrow, “What kind of torture, do you suppose?”

  The slaves set the Hanim’s throne down, and somewhere in the garden a heavy staff was slammed against the floor. A voice yelled, “All kneel before her Immortal Grace, Angharad tin’Theliara Hanim!”