"I have indeed," he said and lowered his voice slightly. "The matter you raised concerning the integrity of the city. It may well be that your fears were not groundless, and I hope that we might speak of this sometime. Not," he hastened to add as her face grew concerned, "that I believe we are dealing with an immediate threat, nor one that cannot be countered. But it is one I believe we must identify and learn more about before the time is right for decisive action."
Crotias looked slightly disappointed. Subtle investigations were not to her taste; a call to direct action was what she wanted to hear.
"Well, then, when that time comes I trust you will call upon me," she said, brushing a smear of reddened dust from her hip. "So you are off now?"
"Not yet, I have one further call to make." Cassian spoke as nonchalantly as he could.
"And who might you be calling upon?" She stared straight at him. He wasn't going to be able to evade her query.
"I thought I would pay my respects to Captain Schavian," he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially once more. "If I learn anything of importance, I shall let you know, of course, since one of your own men is involved. However, at times a praetor must pay certain visits, make certain enquiries, purely for the purpose of creating a distraction or to confuse certain eyes that may be upon him."
"Hmm," she said, uncertain and a little confused. Which was exactly what he'd hoped for.
"As I say, I shall certainly advise you should I learn anything," Cassian repeated. She looked happier at that, and after giving him a very smart salute indeed, Crotias stomped away, back to her warriors. Cassian headed for the officers' quarters in the distance.
"Greetings and thank you for seeing me, Master Schavian," Cassian said warmly. "I will need very little of your time. I appreciate that you might not much enjoy my presence here, so let me make this short."
"Thank you," Schavian replied curtly. He was slightly taller than Cassian, perhaps half a hand higher, and of muscular build. The long-hilted sword he carried scabbarded at his waist was beautifully crafted. The hilt, pommel, and scabbard were of excellent craftsmanship, and Cassian commented on that, partly to put Schavian at ease and partly because he honestly admired it.
The alert eyes of the other elf scanned his face. "It is a fine blade," he said, "one that has saved some lives during the many years I have had it. Well, no matter of that, I am sure it is not what brought you here. Ask what you will."
"1 might say, to begin with, that I have given no credence to certain rumors I may have heard," Cassian said quietly. The bigger, darker-haired elf stiffened a little.
"But I must inquire into certain matters, matters of some delicacy. I understand that you discovered the bodies of your children. Forgive the indelicacy, but I must ask if you can remember exactly how the bodies looked when you found them? Before any additional wound may, or may not, have appeared," Cassian said, illogically but carefully.
"They appeared to have died in pain," Schavian said with a calm that could only have been summoned through great inner strength.
"And?"
"And what?"
"What else? Think carefully. Not so much of their faces, but the limbs. Did anything strike you about the appearance of the limbs?"
"There was nothing unusual in their placement/'
Schavian said thoughtfully. "But there was something about the skin. . .it was somewhat pale. No, it isn't that." He was obviously trying to recall exactly what he had seen that appalling night. "Ah, what was it?"
Cassian longed to offer the possibility, but knew he could not, not unless Schavian really could not recall. If he rose to the bait, the evidence would be much weaker.
"I thought," Schavian said slowly, "the poison must have acted in the blood. The veins of their arms were very prominent, bulging beneath the skin."
It was exactly what Cassian had wanted to hear, but he didn't want Schavian to know that. He asked about the appearance of eyes and mouths to obscure his delight. Schavian grew more puzzled.
"What exactly are you after, praetor?"
"I cannot say at this time," Cassian replied, "except that I can confirm again that you should not fear any further revelations from me that would be upsetting to you or your wife. Thank you for your time, Master." With that Cassian turned and left, striding across the hot dusty parade ground to his carriage.
What a bloody mess, he thought. Murder taken for suicide and then the parents dress it up as murder. It would appear that the twins were poisoned by the same means that accounted for Crielle.
Cassian considered his options carefully and decided he would need to dine with Crotias after all. It would be the only way he would get to talk to the person he needed to interrogate within the barracks, since sneaking in was hardly a feasible option.
And then I have to consider a terrified slave boy's fear that he will soon be killed by a wizard's curse, and I will also have to beard Patracheus in his lair before very long. Now that is going to be something I shall need to plan carefully.
Cassian left his card and request at the House of Works and, not expecting a swift reply, decided to pay a visit to his host to inquire how the widow Karlanta was bearing up. It was some days since he'd taken wine and meat with Tarlanth, and it was courtesy to pay another call with a gift of some kind. His stay had exceeded a week, and such a gesture was called for, though it must not be something too ostentatious. Stopping off at the Quarter's markets, Cassian settled for two bouquets of the finest late-summer flowers and some squares of excellent silk, cold colors and metallics as he had seen Tarlanth's wife Cryselda wear. Paying extra for silk wrap and fine paper for the flowers, he gazed around at the swarming life of the markets.
The forthcoming feast was clearly beginning to attract traders from further afield than Vivane or its satellite towns and villages. The dark, coiled tuazaren headdresses of Creanans bobbed up and down among the crowd. To the south Cassian could also see the white headdresses of a small knot of Maracians huddled together over kokala; they took it dark and bitter and very strong, without sugar or honey. He also saw two Indrisan elf-women selling beautiful silks, more richly colored and opulent than he had sought for his hostess, and the pungent odor of incense drifted around them in the stillness of the early afternoon.
Some of Crotias's own soldiery were also gathered here, ostensibly to check the passes of all non-Therans; at the moment they were haggling with a group of burly dwarf weaponsmiths. Their work was too chunky, too heavy for Cassian's liking, but he admired the detailed handiwork nonetheless. Catching a snatch of whispered conversation between them, he thought he heard words in pure Throalic. My goodness, they're from Throal, he thought. Allegedly at war with us, and they have come to trade! Then he reconsidered and took them for Barsaivians after all. We enslave them, they curse and attack us, and here they are taking our gold and bringing us their crafts.
It will happen here too, and will be for the best, he reflected. We will conquer their lands, just as we always do, and the grandeur of the Empire will swell with more thousands of miles, more sites of wonder and magic, more power; and they will not be unhappy. Within a handful of generations they will speak as we do, will walk and eat and break bread as we do, and we will be at ease with them and our ways will mix. Having seen many of its lands, Cassian viewed the Empire as a wondrous rich tapestry flung across the world like a many-colored, patchwork quilt, growing and enveloping and warming all within, enriching everyone.
He turned around to take his wrapped gifts and walked away to his carriage.
"These are beautiful," Cryselda said. "They will look very fine in the breakfast room, I think; very warm and bright. And these, too, are splendid and show the discerning eye of a true Medari." She handled the silks with approving appraisal.
Cassian was uncomfortable. Though his gifts had been well appreciated, he did not care for his House to be mentioned. House allegiance was not a concern that a praetor had at the forefront of his mind, and anyone who reminded him of it could onl
y have ulterior motives. But he nodded politely and murmured thanks.
"Take tea with us," she urged him. "Our pastry and sweetmeat cook is very good, as I think you know. She is practicing for the feast night, and you should not miss what she is preparing. If you do not eat some of it, we shall all grow far too fat here."
"I do not think you need fear becoming fat," Cassian said truthfully. "You have been blessed with a fine figure, if I may say so."
"You may," she said, preening like a fanbird.
Cassian disliked the woman more than ever now that she was being talkative and even a bit flirtatious. With her husband so much older than she, he wondered if Cryselda were honing her wiles on him. I doubt she has any serious intentions on me, he reassured himself. That would be wholly contrary to protocol.
An irate voice, the words muffled and unclear, came from somewhere far upstairs, and then Tarlanth appeared, striding angrily down the steps until he caught sight of Cassian. He immediately composed his expression to hide his anger.
"The wretched lad is feigning one of his faints again," he growled. "Pardon me, Cassian. You should not have to witness such things."
"I have asked our guest to take tea with us," Cryselda said, holding up an armful of flowers. "He has brought us these gifts, which is most kind, I think."
There was something in her tone that seemed to be telling Tarlanth what to do, Cassian noted. Interesting.
"Then I'll drag the brat downstairs and he can damn well behave like a young man with some sense and manners about him," Tarlanth said, stomping back up the stairs.
"I don't want to be the cause of any disturbances to your household," Cassian demurred. But Cryselda merely took him by the arm and led him into the summer room.
"You most certainly are not," she said firmly. "Don't mind Tarlanth. His growl is worse than his bite."
"Is Karlanta well?" he asked.
"She is still being given herbs and draughts to make her sleep," Cryselda said with exaggerated ruefulness. "She might perhaps convalesce better in a southern clime, now that summer is ending. There is no hurry. We shall make arrangements at the House conclave in due course."
It sounded like a discussion of what to do with an incurably sick, demented old relative—or worse, like disposing of someone. Was it just his imagination or was it really cruelty Cassian heard in her voice?
As steaming silvered pots of herbal teas and a magnificent platter of cakes, sugared fruits in syrups, and fruitice appeared, so did Tarlanth with his son, the latter being literally dragged into the room before sitting down sullenly at the table.
The boy had exquisitely pale skin, his throat graceful and almost girlish at the neck, his hands slender, his movements fluid. His blonde hair was nearly as fine as that of a fair-skinned elf, and his glittering green eyes were resentful but keen. Dark circles under them suggested that he did not sleep or rest well, and there was an air of frailty about him. Cassian felt sorry for the lad, with such a hard-hearted pair of parents, and sat next to him, almost as if to shield him from his sires. An almost effeminate scent, of lilac and lily, greeted his senses.
"I am Lyn," the boy said without looking at him. "I am supposed to be pleased to meet you."
"Watch your damned manners or I'll take a whip to you," Tarlanth snarled.
Cassian held up a hand imploringly. "Please! I see no reason why he should be glad to see me; I am no relative, and I bring nothing for him, after all. Please do not argue on my account." The boy looked at him with gentle eyes, half-thankfully. Cassian had almost turned the disagreement on himself, and his host's anger dissipated slightly.
"Hmm. Well, it's not the way a scion of this House should behave," Tarlanth growled.
"What do you do with yourself, Lyn?" Cassian asked, hoping to lighten the mood.
"Absolutely nothing, that's the problem," Tarlanth Imtted in. Cassian did not acknowledge the father's words.
"I like to paint," the boy said hesitantly in his high-pitched voice.
"It is an honorable skill, and one that is given to few to practice well," Cassian said approvingly, thinking how wretched life must be for the boy in this household. Cassian suspected that an artist son would be as welcome to Tarlanth as a terminal disease.
"Don't encourage him," Tarlanth snapped. "He'll have to learn business and money-minding, when the day comes."
"Oh, but that will not be for a long time." Cassian turned to Tarlanth with a grin. "You are a man with much life left in you yet, I think."
Even as he spoke, Cassian was not so certain. He guessed that Tarlanth was close to sixty years of age and that he had a dangerous anger about him that often struck down men of his years with violence in the heart, blood erupting into the brain, a sudden massive strike that brought instant death or enfeeblement.
"Well said," Cryselda half-laughed, clapping her hands together in an almost grotesque gesture. "May I offer you one of cook's finest?"
An hour later, Cassian escaped from the villa, thankful to be released. He had not been able to ask Tarlanth about his relations with Daralec, for the entire time had been taken up with the father berating the son, mocking his appearance and frailness, continually expressing his disappointment in him. The mother had simply ignored the whole thing, making comment about Cassian's gifts and clothes and learning and asking him of the lands he had visited. Tarlanth appeared to have business connections with most, if not all, of those places, and to Cassian and the lad's relief, mention of them had drawn his conversation away from endless sniping at his son. As a result, Cassian found himself talking increasingly of himself to spare the boy further taunts and embarrassments, instead of being able to interrogate Tarlanth as he had wished.
I will have to visit again to see if I can make any further headway, he thought ruefully.
Later, back at the Rose Villa, he found his card returned together with a larger and more ornate one from Patracheus. It invited him for a late, after-dinner meeting to take liqueurs, and expressed with regret the fact that meetings from dawn to dusk prevented any earlier hour.
A standard stratagem, Cassian mused. He'll be certain to sleep for a few hours after dinner and meet me refreshed, hoping that I will be wearier and less alert than he is. On this occasion, he is going to be disappointed.
Jerenn was dozing, Cassian having ordered a sedative for him with his afternoon meal. Looking at the sleeping boy, the elf was pleased to see that the burn looked less inflamed around the edge of the poultice and that the bandage on his arm was not blooded; the bleeding had been successfully staunched.
After the sweetened excesses of the afternoon, Cassian told the maids he would not require any dinner, then headed for his bath and the promise of a long nap afterwards.
18
It was nearly midnight when Cassian arrived at the splendid mansion of the man who was arguably the most powerful person in Vivane. The driveway was lit not with lanterns but with globes of fiery magical energy, suspended in mid-air; a truly extravagant ostentation, Cassian thought. Magical light was one thing; using elemental magic to suspend them so was another. This was not a man who denied himself any luxury life could offer him.
As he stepped out of his carriage, he found Patracheus waiting for him in person, clad in magnificent Indrisan silk of cinnamon and brown and fine silver, gold around his collar, musk and fabulously priced garlanta scent drifting around him in the air. He shook the elf's hand and bowed a little too far, before sweeping him into the marbled hallway with its riot of exotic plants and flowers. It was almost like striding through an Aztlanian jungle. Idly, Patracheus's right hand snaked out and availed itself of a ripe fruit from a miniature peach bush. It was uniformly warm in the hall, with no drafts creeping in from outside to disturb the plants.
"Do come in," he said, opening the doors to a drawing room whose appointments must have cost more money than Cassian could expect to see in several decades of Imperial service. At the man's invitation, he took a chair with exquisite silk cushions and ozarabird
feathers drifting down from its arms, a trail of perfect whiteness against the veined marbled floor.
Glancing around the room, Cassian observed that all the windows were also hung with Indrisan silk, while paintings and tapestries seemed to cover almost every available stretch of wall not otherwise bearing the weight of a multitude of books. T'skrang baskets held bowls of fruit and delicate bottles gleamed with many-colored liqueurs. Though opulent, the decor did not have an air of ostentation, and Cassian was intrigued to note a simple, but starkly fine, piece of obsidiman pottery gracing the floor between the two largest bookshelves.
"Now, Cassian," Patracheus said as he finished the fruit with a slurp of pleasure, "you are doubtless wondering why a man who holds the city's purse-strings lives so very well. And if you aren't wondering whether I might have appropriated some of those funds for myself, I should be very shocked. A man of your intelligence and position would naturally conclude just that. However"— Patracheus picked up an ornate gold flask with several lengths of fine tubing hanging from it—"I inherited a very considerable sum from my father. Several millions, in point of fact. Most of this," and he swept an arm lazily around the place, "was purchased by him. My expenditure, in point of fact, has actually been quite modest over the years."
Cassian smiled, and suddenly the man came around and fixed him with his sharp eyes. His free hand pushed back his gold-blonde hair in a deliberately exaggerated gesture as the elf recoiled slightly from the directness of his gaze. Patracheus smiled cheerfully as he packed a little white dust and a chunk of a lustrous brown substance into the flask.
"Come now, your smile tells me you do not believe me wholly. Good for you. You'd be a fool if you did. I must be truthful, I do tell lies. On occasion."
I think I shall dispense with protocol here, Cassian decided. This man has wits sharp enough to sidestep any tangents or stratagems I might employ.
"Can I offer you some? It's very good," Patracheus said, using a taper to light the oil in a receptacle at the base of the flask. "Opara, of course, and some exquisitely line kokaila, true root of kokala. The smoke is drawn through doubly distilled qualifarn, which mellows and smoothes it and adds a lingering aftertaste of delicious nature."
Shadowrun - [Earthdawn 05] - Shroud of Madness Page 13