Ten Ruby Trick

by Julia Knight

  “This is what the Master gives us. No crime, no whores, no violence, no poor starving on the streets. A clean, well-fed, happy and above all peaceful city and all the other islands the same. Peace and order. The bond is a small price to pay. So is my punishment.” Holden’s voice was calm, but his insides roiled as though he was land-sick with the stillness of the earth under his feet. His eyes sought out the patterns in the flagstones at his feet. Regular and comforting.

  “Gives me the creeps,” Skrymir muttered. “Worse that you’re all so willing.”

  “It’s no different to when you’re on board my ship, only larger. Do you regret swearing to me?”

  Without spoken agreement they’d stopped. People bustled round them, careful not to barge. Skrymir drew one or two blank looks, but other than that no one paid them any attention, their vacant faces turned inward on their own business.

  Skrymir’s mouth twitched and he squinted up at the palace atop the hill. As ornate as the houses were plain and uniform. White towers sprouted from it, straight and orderly, precisely aligned, stretching up into the clear blue-gold of the evening sky. A hundred dark windows stared out over the city, shadowed and somehow sinister, as though each window held eyes that could see into your head, your heart.

  “I don’t regret it, how could I? You saved my life. I could do no else, on my honor. I must repay the debt. But…it is different. We’ve not been here a bell yet, and I see the difference in you. It holds you tighter here.”

  Holden turned away and began his slow walk again. He kept his eyes on the great arched doors that yawned their welcome to the palace. “I’m no different.”

  A lie. Skrymir had pinpointed it exactly—the bond held him tighter here, held them all tighter here. On the sea he had a measure of freedom and, though a man like Skrymir might not call it much, to him it was the difference between breathing and suffocation. Holden frowned. Skrymir and his different ways were bringing more and more of these treacherous thoughts into his head. Patterns, see the patterns, the order, the comfort. The bond was good, right, necessary.

  “If it’s all so wonderful, why didn’t you bond me?”

  “I was ordered not to. Your people are different. Your oath is a bond, in a way, and all know you won’t break it. And sometimes an unbonded man is useful, in those places that are suspicious of us.”

  “Thank Kyr for that.”

  “No, Skrymir. Thank the Master.”

  They reached the courtyard that fronted the palace, its complexities of fountains and little stone channels running with bright water. Two guards stood to attention at the doorway, bland, impassive. They could have been statues carved from bronze and copper.

  Skrymir stopped again, storm clouds gathering on his face. “You don’t have to.”

  Holden sighed. How could you explain it to one without the bond, the comfort of it, who hadn’t been brought up among it? That anything was worth that, even the fear that clutched at his balls. Fear would pass; order, peace, the Archipelago would not. “I do. It’s necessary. I didn’t carry out my order, I must take my punishment. In your land, what do they do to a soldier who breaks his oath?”

  Skrymir’s hand strayed to a colored braid in his hair and twisted it, his voice horrified. “They cut your braid off.”

  “That’s all? I thought that—”

  “They cut your braid off, sir. It’s not like what you’ve done. Oath-breaking’s a choice, not a failure, a choice as bad as murder. Worse in some ways. Cut off your braid, cut off your family, friends, honor, everything that makes a Gan a man. More than likely hang you after, the most shameful death, if you’re lucky. If you aren’t—well it’s no life, no life at all. I saw a braidless man once. Half-starved wretch of a man he was by then, and no one would give him the spit out of their mouths. But like I said, to break an oath is a choice freely made. It isn’t the same as—”

  “Then my Master is a benevolent one. I haven’t done as asked. I’ll be chastised, as a man might chastise a child who’s strayed. But it’s done with love and I’ll be welcomed back after. Isn’t that better? The Master gives us everything we could want.” Holden smiled and faced the doorway with a lighter heart. “You’ll change your mind when you see the Master, when you see a mage of the power, see why we keep them hidden so the world won’t know their might and beauty. Why, you’ve yet to see even my ship’s mage, and he’s little compared to the Master.”

  Skrymir muttered under his breath behind him, but Holden ignored it and entered the palace, into the cool shadows and the muted click of boots on tiles. Skrymir trailed him reluctantly, through the lofty atrium painted stark white with columns of grey, blue and black, lit with glittering lamps hung from plain sconces. The archway at the end was a cloud of black. The Master lived in the half dark, to protect his sensitive eyes.

  Holden strode in, full now of the glow of rightness, of things as they should be. The punishment was something to be borne, as Skrymir bore his oath, as mainlanders bore their dissolute lives in fear of violence from the society they chose to live in. His punishment was necessary to the order of the land he lived in, the order that kept his mind in check, as was proper. He would take it, he would bear it, and then it would be done.

  His footsteps faltered as the half dark enveloped him, the air stifling and dead. The tiles were muffled under the ring of his boots, as though they feared what would come. Sweat popped out on his forehead and lip. The guards who ringed the chamber, normally so impassive Holden didn’t think he’d ever seen one as much as fidget without a direct order, moved uneasily as he passed. He let his eyes get used to the gloom and went forward, counting the tiles, tracing the patterns. Soothing himself. Order was necessary. He must obey, and he had not. Order must be restored, straight lines, consequences. It was right.

  Skrymir swore softly from the entrance, an unbonded man allowed no farther, only permitted this far because of Holden’s rank and because he was Gan and had oathed. Holden ignored him; he couldn’t know. It was right. It was.

  Holden concentrated on the patterns on the floor and tried to keep his mind from the anger that would lash him, the Master’s displeasure at his failure, again.

  “Look up, Commander.” The Master’s voice was soft, menacing.

  Holden’s tongue darted out to moisten his lips and he looked up. The Master’s eyes peered out from their prison, dark with sorrow.

  “Yet again, Van Gast eludes you, Commander.”

  “Yes, Master.” Holden had to force the words past the constriction of fear in his throat, had to concentrate on taking deep, even breaths. No fear. He would bear it and it would be done.

  “A simple task, one would have thought, for a man of your capabilities. You have made us seem weak against the debaucheries of the unbonded, when all know that our way is right. You have failed me, failed the Archipelago. Why is this so, do you think?”

  Holden’s eyes were dragged back down to the tiles, the regular pattern letting him think in straight lines. “His little-magics, Master. That’s what they call them.”

  “Little-magics? Paltry things, little more than instinct. And what use are they against the might of the Remorians, against a mage of the power?”

  “Nothing, Master, they are nothing. But I’ve no magic, and they are used against me. He always knows when trouble is coming. He’s well known for it, every man for half a thousand miles tells of it. He feels trouble, us, and slips away like a ghost.”

  “I see.” The Master was silent some time, long enough for Holden’s mind to conjure all sorts of punishments. Patterns, concentrate on the patterns of the tiles. “Come here, Commander.”

  Holden’s legs jerked him up to the dais. The Master raised a finger and Holden had to take a grip on himself not to flinch. Necessary for order, for the land he loved.

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Isn’t that so?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Then we find Van Gast’s greatest enemies and use them. If he feels the trouble coming,
he will think it them, not us, or at the least he’ll be surrounded by trouble and not know which way to turn.” The Master allowed himself the hint of a smile. “He will flee trouble, flee them, and come right into our arms.”

  “How do we find these enemies?”

  “Leave that to me.” The Master creaked his fingers out straight, one at a time, so slow Holden found it hard to see the movement. “Raise your arm, Commander.”

  “Yes, Master.” Holden couldn’t seem to raise his voice above a whisper.

  “It’s necessary, Holden, you know that. It’s right and it’s necessary. For order, and for the Archipelago.”

  “Yes, Master.” He had failed, and punishment was proper.

  The Master’s fingers touched his skin.

  Ruisden sat like a decayed jewel between the gold setting of two hills burnished with fire root. Van Gast could smell it before he saw it rising out of the waves on the horizon, could tell how close they were by the increase in detritus bobbing on the waves. The smell was like a force of nature, enveloping everything and everyone, tainting them all the same. A green smell, of the bog that bubbled behind the houses, the leaves of the fire root that were harvested and treated here before being shipped off to the farthest reaches of the coast to be used in everything from making ropes to lighting fires. The bog fed the underground corms, let them send off suckers miles long to drier hills where they rose in pink-gold arches and dropped stinking sap on everything underneath them, coating the ground in sticky sweetness.

  The leaves were of no interest to Van Gast—cheap and plentiful, there were a dozen or more racketeers and merchantmen who dealt in nothing else. The sap was another matter. Fermented and distilled in a complicated process only a few knew, it made an outstanding liqueur, one Van Gast had a taste for and which sold very well for a very good price. Van Gast got it cheap too. There were advantages to having information of an indiscreet nature on the town’s foremost distiller, information his wife would be most distressed to learn.

  Liqueurs weren’t the only thing he was here for though, because Ruisden had many other delights—and uses. They tied up at the flimsy jetty and Van Gast sent Dillet and a couple of hands to talk to the distiller and fill their hold. He had other business and set off along the earthy, sticky track to where the town nestled under the great overhangs of fire root leaves on the hills. Sap stuck to his boots and made walking a chore. The smell of the fire root hung over everything, masked the more usual odors of fish and sewage. Vapors from the distillers tainted the air a faint green so that everyone took on the cast of someone who’d just eaten bad oysters.

  Van Gast ducked under a tatty awning and down an alley so narrow his shoulders brushed the sides. Hardly anyone down here, and just as well, because he had to turn sideways to get past them. The discreet sign glowed in the window. Open for business at Madame Quint’s. Quint’s was always open for business.

  He opened the door and slipped through. A smiling girl bowed and shut it quietly behind him before she helped him take off his boots. No shoes, no weapons, those were the rules of this house. Van Gast handed her his sword, his pistol and one of his knives. The hidden one stayed where it was. He’d never been one for rules.

  The girl opened another door and Van Gast stepped through into low amber lighting, velvet sofas, the thick heady scent of incense and expensive booze that mingled with the fire root smell and made it bearable. The place was full, as usual, so full there was no place to sit. A group of racketeers at a nearby table, male and female, called a greeting and he nodded tersely.

  Part whorehouse, part business meeting, at Quint’s anything went, and this room, along with Quint’s friendly attitude to those more at home on the wrong side of the law—not to mention her hold over the town elders—made Ruisden a haven for racketeers. Men came for whores or a friendly ear, business or a drink. Women, racketeers anyway, came for the same reasons, though they’d no need of the whores unless their taste ran that way—there were two men to every woman on any racketeer ship. Most any one of either sex would come here at some point during their stay in Ruisden, hook up with someone for a night or two for a tumble if their lover wasn’t in town. But that wasn’t why he’d come.

  He padded slowly through the room, heading for the bar but looking for one person in particular. Finally he spotted her holding court in the corner, half a dozen men hanging on every word. Quint saw him watching and raised her glass and a cool eyebrow. Nothing ever surprised her, that was one of the first things he’d learned about her. The very first was what it was like to tumble a woman, and fairly swiftly after that was just what a shrewd brain she had on her.

  When he didn’t say or do anything in response to her greeting, she frowned delicately and stood, smoothing down her silk dress, and glided across to him. She said nothing but laid a gentle hand on his arm, gestured to one of the servants and led Van Gast into the darker recesses at the back, then on into a private room.

  She had him sit on one of the plush, silk-covered loungers and poured him a glass of smoky fire-spirit, another for herself. Her eyes watched him carefully and she sipped at her drink. Van Gast downed his in one swallow, grimaced at the burn and held out his glass for her to pour again. She filled it to the brim and waited.

  He knocked back half the second glass and watched her in return. The rich brown hair was pulled back into an intricate knot that showed off her tawny skin and large, expressive brown eyes to perfection. Older than Van Gast by ten years perhaps. Still, when he thought of beauty and elegance, he thought of her. His first tumble and, on his part, his first lover, generous of heart and mind. A true lady.

  She looked delicate but she wasn’t, not emotionally or mentally. She had a mind that soaked up all the information she heard and effortlessly pieced it together. And she heard every little bit of information there was to be had. Not just from the racketeers, but merchantmen, fishermen, beggars and even occasional Remorian deckhands with looser bonds who frequented her other establishments. If she didn’t know it, it either wasn’t worth knowing, she could find out, or no one could.

  “You seem nervous, Van.” Her mouth was curved up in that knowing smile she had. She knew why he was here, probably had known it even before he’d decided to come.

  “Not really. What have you heard?” He shrugged one shoulder in an offhand way.

  She filled her glass again and sipped at it. “Trouble in Estovan. Nearly caught you there, didn’t they? Not the first time either. Someone was looking for you before, but no word since. Whoever it was has called off the dogs. You’re safe enough.”

  Van Gast let out a gusty sigh. He’d had his ship’s true-mage—that is, a proper mage, a mainlander mage, not a damned Remorian—scrying, had him contacting every other ship’s true-mage in range, and they’d come up with nothing. No one following since Estovan, but too, no one knew who it’d been, and Van Gast liked to know who wanted to catch him. It made it easier to avoid them.

  “You don’t know who?”

  Quint’s forehead creased delicately. “No, no I don’t, and that puzzles me. A big man, a Gan, was asking questions about you from here to Tarana in the time before you were at Estovan. What would a Gan want with you?”

  “I thought it was the Yelen after me. I thought the Gan was working for them.”

  “Ah yes, the Sea Witch. Nice catch for you. But no, the Yelen want whoever took the dowry—but they don’t yet know it was you who stole it. They will, in time. I’d give you a week or less before they discover Haban took the diamond from you to sell. Then you’ll have a price on your head, one which might even tempt me. If I were you, I wouldn’t go back there any time soon. If I had any sense. But it wasn’t them chasing you this time. I don’t know who that was.”

  “Wonderful.” Van Gast got up and paced. His trouble bone hadn’t stopped itching since Estovan, just the faintest scratch but enough to keep him awake at nights, wondering if even now someone was trailing him, wanting to catch him and determined to find him. Quint�
�s assertion that they were no longer after him eased it back. “So you can’t help me then?”

  “Not presently, Van, no. I can keep my eyes and ears open for you. If I find anything I’ll let you know. But if I were you, I’d be careful who I robbed until you know more. Whoever it was, they’ve stopped for now, no one’s seen the Gan for a time, no one else is asking what they shouldn’t. Maybe they’ve done whatever it was they set out to do.”

  “You believe that?” Whoever it was, they’d been determined, and almost lucky enough, to catch him. He wasn’t sure they’d give up so easily, though it was a slim hope.

  “I don’t know. Yet.” Quint got up and stood in front of him, her perfume tickling his nose and reminding him of a younger time, when he’d been naïve and hopelessly in love with her, a woman who loved nobody and nothing except information and what it could get her. Still, while she hadn’t loved him, she had a soft spot for him, that he knew. She was probably the source of his weakness for smart and highly unobtainable women.

  “While you’re in port, some of my girls have been pining for you. Might take your mind off things for a while.”

  “A kind offer, but no.”

  She raised a skeptical eyebrow and smiled secretively. “I see, yes, I think I do. A racketeer turning down a tumble. Just as I thought. Well then, if you’ll excuse me?”

  She left the room in a cloud of perfume and elegance, and left Van Gast wondering what it was she’d just concluded about him.

  Chapter Seven

  Holden checked his sword again, unaccountably nervous. Or maybe it wasn’t so strange. A fair-haired woman and a young boy, his Master had said. On this street, on this day, at this time, when dawn was just starting to make its presence known. Those words weren’t what made his stomach jump and flip, but the casual afterthought. “A new dawn that will change your life forever, Commander. It’s up to you in which way.” Then the Master had smiled. Holden didn’t like it when he smiled—it usually meant someone was about to discover what pain really was, in excruciating detail. He could only hope it wasn’t his turn to learn today, again.