by Jason Letts
Men with guns came down the walkway first as Tris fretted that their guests of honor might not have made the journey themselves. Twenty or thirty of the armed men positioned themselves around the dock before anyone else exited the ship. Then nearly as many passengers disembarked in a steady stream down the walkway, including a suave man in a silver suit and hat who was unquestionably Velo Wozniak. He had a trimmed mustache and a pale complexion, but he appeared queasy and anxious to get off the ship.
Not far behind him was Portia Illiam in a gown as yellow as her hair. She spoke closely with an aide, who was holding a clipboard and flipping through the papers. The woman struck Tris as calculating, just as Lowell had warned, but it wasn’t an unwelcome quality. At the moment Tris wished she could’ve been more calculating.
Instead, all she could do was lead her envoy out to the visitors, hoping they wouldn’t recognize her because of the cloth covering her nose and mouth.
“On behalf of Her Highness the Virtuoso, I welcome you to the great city of Madora. It’s my honor to escort you to her,” Tris said.
She made the traditional greeting, extending her hand, palm facing out, to Velo. The man must’ve had a long, rough ride and was sweating from his illness. He took one look at Tris’s hand and cringed.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, brushing past her. To Tris’s surprise, Portia spoke up after him.
“Come on. These people can’t be that dirty. Here,” she said, patting her palm against Tris’s and exchanging a quick look. Something caught Portia’s blue eyes, a glimmer of recognition. At the very least she knew Tris was Cumerian.
Tris swallowed her nerves as they walked through the streets toward the compound. Although the last light of dusk was fading and lights in the windows and lanterns allowed only a dim view of the streets, Tris brought her eyes to the dark rooftops, where an ephemeral shadow played tricks on her eyes. The Defender was up there waiting for his opportunity, and Tris’s mind raced with how they would stop someone who couldn’t be killed.
The visitors’ armed escorts entered the compound’s front gate and fanned out around the grounds. Tris walked just behind Velo and Portia, who stopped when they saw the bare clay walls and the structure’s steel frame sticking through the roof in places.
“You people do need some help,” Velo muttered. Portia and her aide huddled together and jotted down notes on their pad. Tris hoped they observed how many poor and starving people were lining the streets. More than anyone else in the world, this woman could change that.
They passed through the compound’s front courtyard and continued beyond the open double doors. Candles lined an otherwise dim hallway to the throne room, where fires burned in sconces on the wall and reflected against the beautiful tiled designs on the floor. Tris stepped out in front of the visitors to address the extravagantly dressed woman sitting on the painted and carved wooden throne.
She spoke a few meaningless sentences in Madoran to Agjam, who had been dressed in colorful robes and scarves of her own making. This first woman that Tris had gotten to know in Madora had a bowl-shaped crown painted gold and encrusted with cheap, shiny rocks and bits of glass from the river. Putting Agjam in the Virtuoso’s place became a necessity after the loss of Dedrick. They needed a real Madoran to play the part.
Agjam said to Tris one of the few phrases she’d come to understand: “Don’t be afraid.”
“To our honored guests, may I present to you the Virtuoso of Madora. She wishes you good health, peace, and a pleasant stay while in her beautiful city,” Tris said. She’d barely finished speaking before Velo spoke up with another complaint.
“Can we get down to business here? Not that I’m anxious to get back on board, but I already feel filthy. This humidity is wretched. How do you people live out here? So if we can go straight from the introductions to the negotiations, we might get something done before I’m too exhausted to give a shit,” Velo said, sounding indignant and whiny. Clearly the man had no respect for anything he saw, which was understandable and largely expected.
Portia seemed to be largely of the same mind, and after a few words with Tris, Agjam clapped her hands to call in a couple of men who carried a heavy chest. They popped it open in front of the guests, revealing a trove of clear, shiny minerals from the river. Like the ones on Agjam’s crown, they were all worthless and good for little more than beaded necklaces, but it still drew gasps from the armed escorts and from Velo Wozniak. A little color returned to his cheeks at the prospect of these riches, but Portia strolled forward, examined some of the stones, and let them fall back on the pile.
“Jewels are nice, but I’m not going to be bought off with a big box full of them without taking a careful look at the numbers. Every potato and every last kernel of corn need to be accounted for,” Portia said to Tris, crossing her arms over her slender middle. “You need to make it clear to her that we’re not just talking about a one-time purchase of foodstuffs. This would immediately amount to one of Cumeria’s biggest export arrangements next to Lyria. Money and jewels alone aren’t going to cut it.”
“Then what do you want?” Tris asked, after pretending to translate a response from Agjam. The signal for Agjam to talk was for Tris to look back over her left shoulder. Portia quickly conferred with her aide and the clipboard.
“In addition to market price for the produce, we have a list of requirements that need to be met. Failing to agree to any of these would be a deal breaker. First and foremost, we demand the right to conduct a survey for arable land in the vicinity of Madora and along the seacoast and then use it for our own production, even if it is currently under other ownership. We need to be able to erect a stand of our own in any markets in any location of our choosing. Our third requirement is that any other farmers must be forbidden from selling crops at prices below ours, which we’ll set based on the usual Illiam formulas relating to production ratios and cost/profit standards.”
Tris could barely help but gawk at the deluge of demands Portia wanted in order to form any deal. At first she was astounded at the level of encroachment in Madoran affairs the Illiams proposed. It was a blizzard of land grabs and market manipulations, and Tris’s mouth hung open as she tried to formulate a response. Portia might have never stopped if it weren’t for Velo Wozniak, who made a pained face and put his hand to his forehead.
“Can you give it a rest and come down off your high tractor?” he groaned. “There’s no need for us to go over everything in such detail. Otherwise what’s the point of being a chief executive? Let’s just get a rough outline together, agree on the main points, and then leave the inane minutiae to the bean counters so we can get on with our lives. Is there anything worth seeing in this dump of a city?”
“There’s the temple of Stram,” Tris said.
“I had something far less reverent and with plenty more curves in mind.”
Their exchange was cut off when Portia, who had been stewing with gritted teeth, snapped.
“This is why the Wozniak Conglomerate has had flat revenue for three quarters. The only things the executives know how to do are chase skirts and make farm puns. It’s like their heads are full of lead,” Portia said.
“Good one. But that’s not true at all,” Velo said, adjusting the lapel on his steel gray jacket. “The girls rarely have as much as a skirt on. However, we do have a request we would kindly desire to make to Madora’s illustrious Virtuoso. We would be overjoyed at the prospect of providing Her Majesty with the raw materials necessary to complete this fine…err…royal estate and develop an industrial center in Madora under the one condition that we receive a cut of the final purchase price for any products containing our materials.”
“I see,” Tris said, looking over her shoulder at Agjam, who spoke long enough to buy Tris some time to think. Lowell hadn’t told her nearly enough about what these two might’ve asked for. But a thought did strike her about a similarity between the requests. The elegant blonde with the anal retentive streak wanted
to essentially take over Madora’s farming ecosystem, while the pouty trust fund baby who seemed pleased if not proud of his womanizing wanted to branch out into the markets of Plagrass. What did it say about chaotic Cumeria that two of its premier families were seeking answers beyond its borders?
“Is there anything else you want, Mr. Wozniak?”
“No, that’ll do. But surely you have some quarters for us while we’re here, correct? Silk bed sheets, large bath, private entrance, access to local establishments? Do you make personal visits? I’m very interested in getting to know the Virtuoso and the royal family. She doesn’t have any children, does she? An opportunity to meet with them might make me a little more flexible when it comes to this deal.”
Tris shuddered, remembering what Sierra had told her about Velo’s son, Raidan, and the Wozniak way of doing business.
“The Virtuoso doesn’t have any children,” Tris said. At least none that you can see.
“Can we get back to our negotiations?” Portia interjected. “I know the Wozniaks have no use for a conference room because all they need to make a deal is a flagon of wine and a mattress, but I’d like to sit down somewhere and get a firm sense of what Her Highness needs from us.”
“Why don’t you go sit on an ear of corn?” Velo sniped.
“You’re just upset because you can’t whore your way into our family,” Portia shot back.
“From what I hear, the only things to come out of your womb are rotten apples.”
“Says the man whose son ended up dead in one of Ristle’s back alleys after losing an encounter with a piece of ladies’ footwear.”
As much as Tris enjoyed watching the two of them fight, it made her sad that the fate of Madora rested in the hands of two greedy, bickering Cumerian elites who only saw Madora as a new market to exploit. They played into all of the worst things the Defender thought about foreigners.
“The Virtuoso seeks aid for all of the people of Madora who don’t have enough food to fill their bellies. She says that although the level of poverty is great and beyond any easy solution, a steady supply of grain and vegetables would stanch the worst of it and allow people to turn from subsistence living to something more productive.”
Portia narrowed her eyes at Tris.
“But the woman on the throne didn’t say anything. I thought you were just the translator.”
Tris’s cheeks flushed and she kicked herself for not continuing the ruse and pretending to get directions from Agjam. Scrambling for a solution, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“I’m the Virtuoso’s personal assistant, and I’m entitled to speak on her behalf, but of course she has the final say on any proposals.”
“Fair enough,” Portia said, nodding but retaining her skepticism. “And where are you from exactly? You don’t sound like you have an accent at all.”
More quick thinking was required, making Tris fear she’d buckle under the weight of all of these lies.
“My parents were Cumerian, but I was born in Iron City and later attended Allemara University near the Seasand Desert,” she said.
“And how did you end up doing what you’re doing now? Wouldn’t Her Royal Highness the Virtuoso have her own people to assist her?” Portia asked with the determination and persistence of an interrogator. Tris kicked herself for falling into another hole; it was just a matter of time until she got caught. Velo had a finger on his chin, watching her wither.
“I studied Madora and the language at university, and I came here hoping to work as a translator for some of the wealthy families. None of them had much interest, and I spent years working my way up through the caravan castes until the Virtuoso called me. Only Her Highness had a vision of this city’s place in the world that recognized the value of my skills.”
Tris thought she was in the clear, which was good because a chill seemed to settle in the room that ever so slightly diminished the wavering firelight. She glanced up at the rafters and archways in the ceiling, seeing nothing but their shadows against the roof. Going to another room—the dining hall, perhaps—seemed like a good idea.
“That makes sense,” Portia said, and Tris allowed a stifled sigh, “except that Allemara University isn’t yet ten years old. Are you telling me you completed a four-year degree there and spent years languishing here until you got your current position? When did you start, yesterday?”
A shadow swept through the rafters overhead, and the firelight flickered. No one else might’ve noticed but Tris, who was struck by an entirely new source of tension. There wasn’t any doubt about it; the Defender had come just as Lowell predicted he would in his plans. That unborn specter of the city found the heads of her foreign guests to be an irresistible target, but Tris needed them to help save the city.
“The Virtuoso called for my help when she knew you were coming,” Tris said, a little absently as her gaze wandered overhead. She reached into the fold behind her right hip and clasped the Florjium-powered gun she’d gotten from Lux when she had first arrived in the city.
“And you’re already her personal assistant who’s empowered to speak for her,” Portia said. It was an accusation rather than a statement, but the interrogation and the negotiations no longer mattered. Tris removed the gun and held it at her side, drawing gasps from her guests and their guards, who must’ve taken it as a sign of guilt about her identity, but it couldn’t be helped.
There were about a dozen of their soldiers in the room, all of them pointing their weapons at her. Tris had inadvertently become the perfect distraction for the Defender. All of a sudden two of the soldiers dropped to the floor, causing everyone to turn and look. They’d been cut open, their blood spilling into a strange kind of writing on the floor that only the Mind could understand, and deep lacerations split open their chests in a similarly haunting and stylish shape. Was the Moan Soothsayer telling the story of strategic deaths and lives cut suddenly short, or of a xenophobic killer playing out a bizarre fantasy in the shadow of his lost mother?
It was impossible to tell what would happen, but Tris had to act fast or risk losing everything Madora needed to prosper. The perversity of it stung deep, but Tris had to protect the ones who had tried to kill her husband and wipe out his people.
“Get behind me!” she ordered, stepping toward Velo and Portia. She held the gun straight out but kept her eyes to the rafters, looking for a sign of where he would attack from.
“What the fuck was that?” Velo howled. He’d immediately lost all composure, shaking as if he were naked in a snowstorm. Portia and her aide were very alert, but they huddled in behind Tris all the same.
“It’s hard to explain,” Tris muttered. The less they knew, the better. She shifted left then right, scanning the dark shadows in the corners battling against the firelight.
Behind them another soldier dropped to the ground, firing his weapon in the process. Two other soldiers shot at random at the roof until dust from cracking sheetrock filled the air. They were cut down a moment later, and the Defender stepped forward into the hazy firelight. As she’d seen in her nightmares, he had the open cloak, the black-plated armor underneath, and the long, bloody sword covered in runes that grew broader at the end with three holes in the middle.
“What are you waiting for? Shoot him!” Portia demanded. She’d shouted it in Tris’s ear, but the remaining soldiers took the order. But as soon as they pulled their triggers, they realized the Defender had plugged the barrels of their guns, leaving them with nothing to do but engage him head-on with their fists. The lot of them dropped the guns and ran down the hall for the exit.
“Cowards! I’ll have your heads for that!” Velo said, his voice quaking.
“This is outrageous!” Portia hollered. “Fire the gun already!”
But Tris knew firing at the Defender was useless. He’d actually been shot by that gun before. He bled, but didn’t die. Until the man was born, nothing could kill him. But Agjam, a few Madorans in the room, and Tris were all safe from his ha
rm. Tris and the Defender faced each other down.
“There’s nothing for you here, so you can turn around and leave now. I won’t let you harm them,” Tris said through gritted teeth. Feelings of doubt, insecurity, and nervousness were gone from her. She had to protect her visitors to fulfill her role as Virtuoso and bring prosperity to Madora, even if it meant crossing the one who had charged her with that task.
The Defender’s deep, gravelly voice echoed through the throne room. He spoke in what he called Language, a tongue from outside of Iyne that was accessible to all.
“They are not worth the air they breathe. Look at them! They want to cripple Madora, rape her, and take everything back across the sea. You are dealing with forces you don’t understand and cannot control. The invasion has already begun, if only in their minds, and the Defender will never abide by it.”
Tris swallowed. She was angry and fully aware that the longer this went on, the more damaging it would be for their prospects.
“The Virtuoso knows exactly whom she’s dealing with,” she said, stopping short. Getting into what the visitors could offer or elaborating on their penchant for treachery would only damage the deal. As it was, Tris could feel Portia’s hot, hyperventilating breath on her neck. It would be so easy for that anger and frustration to turn into something bad for Madora.
“You cannot stop me from getting to them,” the Defender said. Velo uttered a new round of whimpers, and Tris knew he was right. All at once the Defender vanished into the shadow, appearing briefly at Tris’s left and then right, each time getting closer. At each appearance, Tris feared he would swing his sword and fell those she depended on. Simply protecting them wasn’t enough to halt the Defender. She needed to make a bigger sacrifice.
“Stop!” she screeched.
Tris glanced briefly at the poisonous Florjium stone powering the weapon before pointing the barrel of the gun at her own head. She stepped away from Velo and Portia, turning to find the Defender behind them with sword high in the air. His hood was raised enough to reveal eyes that were pale and dark at the same time. Something akin to terror was in them. The surprise of his presence and the impending swing sent the three visitors tumbling onto the floor in a botched attempt to scramble away.