by Rachel Aaron
He turned in the air and landed on the Merchant Prince’s table, catching an ink pot just before it blew into Sara’s face. Across the room, Banage stood in the center of a small tornado, his robes flying like flags.
“Keril,” the Rector said, and the pale blue stone on his index finger flashed like a small sun. The wind intensified, forcing Tesset to a crouch as he shielded Whitefall and Sara.
Tesset squinted against the wind. Banage was moving his other hand now, bringing a green cabochon of glowing jade to his lips.
“Duesset,” he said, his deep voice clear over the roar of the wind.
The entire hearing chamber rang like a bell, and then, with a roar that cracked the windows, an enormous creature exploded through the stone floor. Tesset’s eyes widened. It looked like a warhorse carved from jade, but it was larger than any horse Tesset had ever seen. The creature lowered its head, and its stone mane fell into easy steps for the Rector to climb onto its back.
Banage looked down on Sara, Tesset, and Whitefall from the creature’s back, his face a stone mask.
“I am the voice of the Spirit Court,” he announced, his words booming through the room. “I speak for us all, and I say this: The Spirit Court exists for the spirits. Just as we will never allow them to be coerced, so shall we never allow ourselves to be ordered to war by an outside authority. Fight the Empress with your own blood, Alber, for you shall have none of ours.”
With that, the wind gave one final howl, shattering the large glass windows that looked out over the city. As the glass fell, the stone horse leaped, carrying Banage through the broken window. It landed with a crash in the courtyard below, but when Tesset ran forward, all he saw was a crater in the paving stones and the flick of the jade horse’s tail as it charged the citadel gate. The iron bars crumpled like paper as the creature galloped through them, its stone feet striking the cobbles like smithy hammers on new iron as it vanished down the street and into the city below.
“Well,” Whitefall said, pulling himself up. “That could have gone better.”
“Could it?” Sara said, reaching out her hands for Tesset to help her up. “How many times have I told you? You can’t speak sense to Banage. The nerve of that man, forcing his morals on the whole world. Spiritualists poking their noses into my workshop, can you imagine?” She shook her head. “You were right to turn him down, Alber. If they discovered the truth of the Relay, we’d have a full-out rebellion on our hands.”
“I’m not sure we won’t as it is,” Whitefall said, his voice tired. “But I had hoped to avoid breaking the Court.”
“It was already broken,” Sara said with a sniff. “Banage is a fanatic. There’s no place for him in an order as old and vested in its power as the Spirit Court. Forcing him to reject conscription was the best thing you could have done. Some of the old guard will stick to Banage’s banner of high morality, but the majority of Spiritualists won’t risk treason just to keep their hands clean, especially not when they can say they were only fighting for their country.”
Tesset had to agree. In one move, Whitefall had taken Banage’s ultimatum and turned it around, forcing the Rector Spiritualis into the weakest position possible. If the Merchant Prince had simply let him leave the first time he refused, or worse, threatened him with force, Banage could have stood on his principles, turning himself and his supporters into moralistic objectors. But with the conscription notice, Whitefall had backed Banage up against his own ultimatum. He could no longer stay aloof. It was give in and go with the Council as a conscript or be declared a traitor. Of course, Banage had still refused, but in refusing he’d doomed his own chances at keeping the lion’s share of the Court. After all, while there were plenty of Spiritualists who would have jumped at the chance to avoid the war by siding with their Rector, only the true fanatics would be willing to be branded traitor for him. Tesset grinned. He loved a good turn-about.
“Get the message out to your contacts among the Tower Keepers, Sara,” Whitefall said. “The Council will welcome any Spiritualists who wish to fight for their homes. Those who join Banage will be declared traitors, and their property and lands will be seized.”
“Consider it done,” Sara said. “But what are you going to do about Etmon? He’ll only muck things up if you leave him to run loose.”
“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that,” Tesset said, glancing out the crashed window. “Look.”
Across the city, the Spirit Court’s tower was moving. The white stone walls, clearly visible even at this distance, rippled like water. Windows vanished beneath a wave of stone, and the great red doors of the Tower fell like trees as they watched, crashing to the ground as the entrances they guarded vanished beneath a wall of stone. One by one, every escape to the outside world vanished beneath the rippling white stone until the Tower was completely sealed, an impenetrable, unblemished spire of pure white.
“Well,” Sara said softly. “I suppose that takes care of that.”
“What was that?” Whitefall said.
Sara held out her hand and Tesset handed her her pipe. “Banage’s sealed the Tower,” she said, tapping a measure of fresh tobacco into the bowl. “Took his toys and went home. Typical.” She made a scornful face as she lit her pipe and took a long draw. “If you’re done with me, Alber, I’m going to get those messages out before Banage can convince the Spiritualists they’re being persecuted. The last thing we need is a bunch of self-righteous wizards fighting us instead of the Empress.”
Whitefall nodded, still staring. Sara turned on her heel and marched out of the room. Tesset fell into step behind her, still smiling. Whitefall watched the sealed Tower a moment longer, and then, shaking his head, he walked to the door and called the servants in to start cleaning up the mess Banage had made of his hearing chamber.
CHAPTER
6
Five hours after their failed frontal assault, Eli had everything he needed to get them into the castle. Business finished, they were now sitting at a tucked away table in one of the large inns overlooking the palace square, washed, dressed, fed, and killing the last hour before the guard change with a few hands of Daggerback. Josef was winning, which might have been the only reason he was still at the table.
“I don’t understand why you wasted your money,” Josef grumbled, picking up his cards as fast as Eli dealt them. “There’s no point. I told you, we’re just going to leave.”
Eli pursed his lips as he turned over his bid card, a knight. “It wasn’t a waste,” he said. “We have to look at you, too, you know. And the guard was right. You were starting to come off a bit terrifying.”
Josef made a harrumphing noise, and Eli grinned. Despite the swordsman’s scowl, he was looking very well. They’d found a barber to cut his hair and give him a proper shave, and while nothing could be done about his scars, Josef had looked almost civilized when he got out of the chair. Eli had also bought him a new shirt, a white one, with no bloodstains or suspicious holes, as well as some nonpatched trousers. Small changes, really, but the overall effect was a wonder. With a pressed shirt, blond hair cut short and neat, and his chin shaved clean, Eli could almost believe that the man sitting across the table really was a prince. Provided, of course, he looked past the belts of blades Josef refused to take off.
“Five to open,” Eli said, tossing his coins on the table. “Stop complaining, you look lovely. Nico thinks so, too. Don’t you, Nico?”
Nico jumped and peeked over her cards. “He looks nice,” she said, placing her ante next to Eli’s. “But he looked nice before, too.”
Josef gave Eli a “there, you see” smirk as he dropped his money onto the pile.
“There’s nice that’s fit for gutting people and nice that’s fit for palaces,” Eli said pointedly. “Besides, boys shouldn’t visit their mothers in shirts that have stab holes, or with hair that looks like he cuts it with a throwing knife.”
“Skinning knife,” Josef corrected. “I use my skinning knife.”
“Mo
ving on,” Eli said. “We are all agreed that you look quite well now. Looking well is universally useful, so the money wasn’t wasted. I bet two.”
Josef slapped two coins on the table without looking up. “Match.”
Nico glanced at Josef, then at Eli. “Fold.”
“One down,” Eli said, grinning as Nico lay her cards on the table. “Two again.”
Josef matched his bet with a nasty look. They went back and forth for another minute, trading coins until the pile was quite impressive. Finally, Eli called it, and they showed their hands. Josef won with a pair of kings. He scooped up the money with a satisfied smile while Eli watched glumly. When it was all gone, the thief stood with a resigned sigh.
“I think I’ve lost enough for one day,” he said. “Josef, since you have all our gold at the moment, would you settle the tab?”
“Since it’s your money, sure.”
Josef set the Heart in the corner and made his way to the bar. When he was gone, Nico turned to Eli.
“Why did you keep betting?” she asked quietly. “You knew he had a better hand.”
“That I did,” Eli said. “But there’s more to the game than gold, and Josef’s always in a better mood when he wins.”
He gave Nico a brilliant smile as he grabbed his bag and made his way toward the back door. Nico watched him with a puzzled expression until Josef returned.
The swordsman paused. “What?”
“Nothing,” she said, rubbing her eyes.
Josef shrugged and motioned for Nico to lead the way to the alley where Eli was waiting.
At eight o’clock precisely, the guard changed as scheduled. Five minutes later, a carriage pulled into the palace square. The carriage was a fine one, with a matched pair of bays and a liveried footman who jumped down the moment the wheels stopped. The footman opened the door and flipped the folding stair out with a clack. From the shadows inside the shuttered carriage, a gloved hand reached out, and the footman hurried to help the gentleman down.
The passenger was a genteel figure in an old-fashioned long coat, fitted pants, and short boots cut from two shades of black leather. His face was obscured by a full, gray beard trimmed to a neat point, but his blue eyes were magnified by the silver spectacles that sat on the bridge of his nose. The old man moved slowly, leaning on the footman. He looked so fragile as he climbed down that the junior guard started forward to help him, but the senior guard stopped him with a shake of his head, and they held their position as the footman helped the old man down to the street.
As soon as the gentleman cleared the carriage door, another man exited almost on his heels. The second man was dressed similarly to the first, same old-fashioned coat and two-tone boots, but he was younger, much larger, and armed with two swords at his side as well as a long, sword-shaped-wrapped bundle on his back. He had a silver-tipped cane and a leather-wrapped satchel tucked under his arm, both of which he handed to the first man as soon as he reached the ground. The older man took the cane and the satchel gratefully, leaning on the first while he undid the straps on the second.
The younger man paid the footman without comment. From the way the footman began to bow and scrape, it must have been an impressive amount. After much groveling, the footman climbed back onto his perch and the carriage pulled away, leaving the two men alone with the guards.
The senior guard eyed the way the armed man rested his hands on his sword hilts and stepped forward, putting himself between the new arrivals and the palace gate.
“May I help you?”
“One moment, if you please,” the older man said, still digging through his satchel.
The guard relaxed just a fraction. The expensive clothes had been a good hint, but now he was sure these were men of import. No one with an accent that refined could be up to trouble.
After much digging, the old man pulled a small book out of his bag and began thumbing through it. “Here we are,” he said, stopping somewhere in the middle. “I’m looking for a Mr. Wallace.” He glanced over his spectacles at the older guard. “That would be you?”
“Yes, sir.” The senior guard, Wallace, stood at attention. “Are you expected?”
The old man sighed and adjusted his spectacles. “I shouldn’t think so, Mr. Wallace. My name is Velsimon Whitefall and this is my bodyguard, Officer Fuller. We’re with the National Obligation Audit Division of the Council Tax Bureau.”
The man with the swords nodded, but Wallace didn’t see him, the gate guard was too busy turning a pasty shade of grayish pink. He didn’t know much about the inner working of the Council of Thrones, but he knew the name Whitefall, and he knew that anyone from an office with “Audit” in the title was no one you wanted at your gate.
“I apologize for our late arrival,” the old man continued. “We were delayed leaving the mainland, but our business here is of the most pressing urgency. There was a bit of a miscalculation on Osera’s last payment and I need to speak with your treasury officer, Mr.…”
“Lord Obermal?” Wallace suggested.
“Ah yes, Obermal.” The old man closed his little book with a sigh. “There are so many countries now, they all start to”—he waved his hands in a circle—“roll together.” He finished with a shrug. “Would you be so kind as to take us to him?”
“I’m afraid Lord Obermal is at dinner,” Wallace said carefully.
“Then I think you should fetch him,” the old man said. “As I said, this is a matter of some urgency. I wouldn’t be wasting my evening begging at gates were it otherwise, would I, Mr. Wallace?”
If possible, Wallace went paler still. “I—”
“Perhaps you could show us to his office and we could wait for him there?” the old man suggested helpfully. “So Lord Obermal doesn’t have to come all the way to the gate?”
He punctuated this last bit with pointed lean on his cane. Wallace took the hint. “Of course, Lord Whitefall, of course.” He looked over his shoulder. “Higgins!”
The younger guard snapped to attention.
“Take our guests to the treasury office. I’ll go and fetch Lord Obermal.”
The younger guard saluted and ran to open the gate for the Council Auditor and his guard. “This way, please, Lord Whitefall.”
The old man smiled his thanks and hobbled into the palace, his cane clicking on the cobbles. His bodyguard went next, followed by Wallace, who walked with them just long enough to make sure Higgins was taking them the right way. When he saw the younger guard leading them up the stairs toward the treasury office, he grabbed a pair of guards from hall patrol and sent them to watch the gate. His duty satisfied, he ran to find Lord Obermal before things got any worse.
Fifteen minutes later, Lord Obermal, Keeper of the Treasury of Osera, excused himself from dinner with the Crown Secretary and the Officer of the Queen’s Horse and set off for his office at a dead run.
“You’re sure they said the National Obligation Audit Division?” he said, panting at Wallace, who was jogging beside him.
“Positive, my lord,” Wallace said.
The treasury keeper made a noise like a mouse getting stepped on. “Audit officers, and a Whitefall no less, here at eight in the evening! Oh, there must have been some terrible mistake. I don’t know how. I reviewed all the numbers myself. Did he say what payment he was here to inspect?”
“No, my lord,” Wallace said. “But he made it seem deadly urgent.”
“It’s always urgent when it comes to the Council and money,” Lord Obermal said, voice trembling. “The queen will have my head if we get audited now, what with everything going on.”
Wallace jogged ahead to open the door to the treasury office. “I had Higgins put them in the receiving room,” he said as Lord Obermal rushed past him. “Anything else I can do for you, my lord?”
“Yes,” Obermal said, grabbing a stack of ledgers from his assistant’s desk. “Don’t tell anyone about this until I’ve had a chance to talk to the queen. We can’t afford a panic.”
�
�Understood, sir,” Wallace said, stepping back into the hallway. “Good luck, sir.”
Obermal nodded and took a deep breath. Then, hugging the ledgers to his chest, he walked through his office and into the receiving room.
“Lord Whitefall,” he said, trying his best to sound like he wasn’t panicking. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I have all of Osera’s payment records right—”
He stopped, the account books slipping as his fingers went slack.
The receiving room was empty. Obermal stood frozen for a moment as his brain switched from one panic to another. When he could move again, he turned and ran for the hall as fast as his old legs could go, shouting for Wallace.
“There,” Eli said, peeling the fake beard off his face as they walked briskly through the back halls of the palace. “What did I tell you? Not even ten minutes.”
“Fine, you were right,” Josef said, unbuttoning the stuffy longcoat. “How did you know it would work?”
“Have you ever been through a Council audit?” Eli said, taking off his spectacles. “Nasty, expensive business, and the auditors are the last people you want to be out of sorts. That’s actually the third time I’ve pulled that scam. Works every time.”
Josef rolled his eyes. “Uh-huh, and why do I always have to be your bodyguard when we do these things?”
“Because, my dear Josef, you are a fighter, not an actor,” Eli said with a smile. “The only expressions your face can produce are surly and murderous, so I have to cast you in rolls that highlight those particular aspects. Also, since I have about as much chance getting you to leave your swords behind as you have of convincing me you’re lead soprano at the Zarin Opera, it seemed the most prudent course of action.”
Josef shook his head. “Why do I even bother?”
“I haven’t any idea,” Eli said, grinning wider. “Where’s Nico?”
Josef glowered at the convenient subject change, but let it slide. He was wondering the same thing. “She should be somewhere around—”