The Deep and Shining Dark

by Juliet Kemp

  Blood and angel, was the old man getting dragged into Urso’s scheme?

  “I know we have disagreed, you and I,” Gavin said.

  Another understatement.

  “But truly, Daril, I believe it is time and past time that House Leandra had an Heir again.”

  Daril blinked. What?

  “I wish you to join with me in pursuing this new opportunity. Prove to me,” the old man’s tone was almost pleading, Daril realised, “prove to me that you do have the ability to be Head, in due course, and I will invest you as Heir.”

  “Prove… What’s finally brought this on, Father?” Daril demanded, playing for time.

  The Heir-ship. Now. He could almost cry. He’d given up on the Heirship, given up on the old man ever getting over his fury and antipathy to his only son. He’d tried proving himself, he’d tried going to the other extreme, he’d tried pleasing the old man, and he’d tried annoying him, and none of it had ever worked.

  Why now, now when he had finally given up and was about to grasp another form of power, now was when Gavin Leandra decided it was time to make his grand gesture?

  Why now, when he was poised to rip out the whole devil-rotted system, when in a matter of days it would no longer matter to him?

  He almost choked on the irony of it. If his father had offered this a year, even three months ago, he would have jumped at it. He wouldn’t have set any of his current plan into motion. And his father wouldn’t be pursuing this scheme of Urso’s and asking him to prove his worth on it, because the scheme wouldn’t exist either. He couldn’t tell whether what was rising in him now was fury or laughter or desperation. Or all three.

  His father walked away from the window, stopping by the side of the desk and resting his hand heavily on it, his head bent down, for a moment, as if he needed help to support himself. Then he sighed, and thumped his stick on the floor, standing upright, back straight as usual.

  “I am not getting any younger. I need to be certain that you are fit to inherit the House. But there is, now, an alternative.”

  What?

  “A cousin.” Gavin grimaced. “You are my only son, but this business with Fereno… Urso Leanvit. We have been working together, and he had some suggestions in case this expedition came up short. Truly, his work has impressed me.”

  Daril bit back a hysterical bark of laughter. He knew exactly what Urso had been doing in his work with Gavin, and what his end-game was. He was torn between satisfaction that it was working so well, and fury that Gavin was treating Urso as a potential Heir.

  Gavin was still talking. “I would – Daril, I believe you have the ability, if you wish. You are my only son. If you can prove to me that you are fit to inherit the House, then I will name you Heir. If not, well, I will offer the same opportunity to Urso.” His chin was up, his expression a curious mix of determination and distress.

  Daril’s jaw clenched. “You want me to prove that I am fit to hold power? More fit than some cadet-branch cousin?” Will offer, Gavin had said. Hadn’t done it yet. At least that meant that Urso hadn’t been keeping this from him. “Father, I assure you I have more knowledge of power than you could imagine…” He stopped, before he let the whole business out into the open.

  “Then prove it.” His father leant forward, his eyes glinting; then sat back. “Or I could disown you. Disbar you from the title, as Fereno did with that twin of her Heir. Or Garat, before your time, when his daughter took her gambling too far.”

  Daril swallowed. It didn’t matter, it didn’t matter. Everything he was working for was nearly in his grasp. He could say anything he liked right now and it wouldn’t matter.

  Except that his father would be suspicious, and perhaps that in itself would be enough to hole his own plans.

  And that was a lie too, even while it was truth. Regardless of anything else: he could not turn this down. However meaningless it might be.

  “I would be Heir, Father,” he said, finally. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. “I will do my best to demonstrate it to you.”

  “Very well,” Gavin Leandra said, and Daril saw his shoulders relax, just a tiny bit. “This business of Fereno, these ideas of Urso’s – they offer this House unparalleled trading opportunities. I will discuss the matter in more detail with you after I have met with Fereno, but for now – your role will be to begin to establish tradition relationship with some of the other nations. Directly. You understand? You will need to be circumspect, of course, at this point. But we are about to change the game, Daril.” The old man’s eyes were gleaming. “We must be ready to seize our opportunity. Prove that you can do this, my son. Prove that you can lead this House.”

  Daril nodded, slowly. “I look forward to hearing more about it, Father.” The words tasted odd in his mouth.

  The gleam in Gavin’s eyes receded, and he looked suddenly tired. “Good. Good. Very well. For now, then, you may go.”

  Daril hesitated for a moment more, then turned and left.

  k k

  Marcia put her pen down in the dip in the desk, leant back, and sighed. So much for visiting Cato today. Her analysis of the expedition’s results wasn’t yet halfway finished, and the afternoon was almost over. But there wouldn’t be a Council session tomorrow – indeed, today’s had been the last until the Mid-Year formalities. She could go over to Cato’s around lunchtime tomorrow, when Cato ought to be at least awake, if perhaps not up.

  She looked back down at the paper on the desk, and the brief notes on rough paper next to it that were the captain’s formal report, written in a large blocky script. The interview yesterday had yielded more detailed information; the captain had obviously been rather more comfortable with the spoken word than with the written.

  She leant back again and chewed at a fingernail. It was clear that the main hope of the expedition – a true new supply route through the mountains, one suitable for significant quantities of goods – had failed. In truth it had always been something of a risk. Marek had been founded, three hundred years before, when the known route through the mountains from Teren to Exuria had been destroyed in a major landslide. Even before that, trade between Teren and Exuria had always been expensive and difficult. Finding the route through the marshland to the Oval Sea, and establishing Marek as a trading port, had been a boon for Teren. And, of course, even more of a boon for the traders that had first made their way to Marek in the footsteps of Eli Beckett and Rufus Marek’s original expedition.

  But what a landslide took away, further landslides could perhaps give back. It was known that there were goat-tracks up through the mountains, used by the hardy folk who lived up there year-round and who traded on a very small scale with their neighbours over the peak of the mountain. And Marcia had heard rumours, when she visited the wholesale market and talked to some of those coming in from Teren with mountain goods, of a more accessible route. That information had driven her suggestion that House Fereno put resources into exploring such a thing.

  Rumour had, as it turned out, played her false. Or mostly false. When pushed, the captain had agreed that it would be possible to trade small goods over the mountains. And small valuable goods were a Marek specialty. On the paper in front of her, Marcia already had a list of Guilds who it might be worth approaching for such a trading party: the Jewellers Guild, of course, for the styles that were particularly popular in Exuria, and House Fereno had well-established links with the Jewellers. Much of the Smiths’ and Cutlers’ output would be too large to carry on foot, but they might have some smaller goods and weapons that would be more portable. Exuria lacked significant metal deposits, so high quality Marek metal goods made from Teren-sourced metal were valuable. Some of the Broderers’ work might also be a good choice, although much of their lace and embroidery was most popular in the Crescent Guilds; and in any case, they weren’t a Guild that House Fereno had had much to do with in the past. Marcia leant forwards to make another note that it might be worth cultivating someone in that Guild for the future, if this new at
tempt went well. She stopped, and thoughtfully regarded the pen she held. It was a recent innovation by a Mareker metalworker, that held ink inside the pen, rather than requiring dipping every few letters. Perhaps that, too, would trade well? She should speak to the metalworker; they had been keen to promote their invention when Marcia had been in the shop and bought this pen. A unique offer like that might be the very thing to make the most of a small-scale trading group. (One could hardly call it a caravan, if it were entirely on foot, could one?)

  That was, of course, if Madeleine permitted her to try this. Marcia felt her teeth grind. By now she should have more power than this. By now, Madeleine should be handing things over to her, preparing the way for her own retirement. Instead, there was no sign whatsoever of such a thing. Madeleine had taken over at thirty, just as her own father had. Marcia would be thirty in four years, but Madeleine had already made it clear that, now that her retirement was no longer a legal obligation, she had no intention of retiring at fifty-five to hand over to Marcia.

  On the upside, of course, if that had still been required, Marcia should have a child of her own by now, to be brought up ready to take over in their course. Madeleine mentioned that, from time to time, but in the absence of a deadline, well, she could hardly push for it. And in the absence of an heir, Marcia’s own ability to push Madeleine to hand over to her was also limited. She had to admit that under the previous arrangements, she would have been under a great deal of pressure to produce a child of her own, one way or another, by now. She scowled down at her fingers. Nevertheless. Since the rules had changed ten years previously, allowing Heads of House to determine their own retirement as they saw fit rather than being limited to twenty-five years of service, it was evident that the current generation intended to hold on to their power for significantly longer. And her own peers were all beginning to show their frustration. It had come up in conversation with Cato, a month or two previously.

  “Nisha’s fed up,” Marcia had said. “And she’s not the only one.”

  “Well, who can blame her? Or you? Or any of you? Waiting around to have some kind of responsibility handed to you? On the other hand, well, I suppose it serves you all right for just waiting around.”

  “What else do you suggest we do? Evict our parents by force?” Marcia had struggled to keep her temper.

  Cato had shrugged, elegant as ever despite his worn and patched clothes. “Give up on the whole sorry business? Council and Guilds and all the rest of it?”

  Marcia still couldn’t make any sense of that suggestion, and she’d said so at the time. The system worked. Marek was prospering. This was a minor point, surely. Cato had shrugged, again, and turned the conversation to other matters.

  Thinking back on it, she wondered whether it was worth speaking to him again. She knew Cato didn’t like the current system; but she’d never been wholly clear as to why. It didn’t seem like it was for the same reasons that she didn’t. He talked of the people over in the squats, the merchants and craftspeople who weren’t part of the House or the Guild system, and she never quite understood what he thought should happen instead and how he felt those people were being let down. Perhaps she should ask him again. He’d likely have good ideas, too, about how she should present her proposals to Madeleine.

  She sighed, and glanced at the clock. For now, she really needed to concentrate on this if she was to have it finished before the afternoon light finally faded. She hated working by candlelight.

  THREE

  Jonas leant back against the wall of the Dog’s Tail and sipped at his beer. Asa and Tam were both running late. The shutters across the bar’s windows – no glass, like he saw in the houses and shops in Marekhill, on this side of the river – were thrown back to let in the warm, slightly close evening air. A storm was coming, unless Jonas missed his guess. He shifted on the bench, aware suddenly of how hot he felt. Hot, and sticky with sweat from running messages. For a sharp moment, he desperately missed the cool evening breeze at sea, could have sworn he smelt a phantom pang of salt. He rubbed at his forehead. If he didn’t sort this out, he wouldn’t be back there at all, ever. He’d been counting on the belief that once he found a sorcerer, they’d be able to just… fix it. What was magic for, after all? The idea that his unwanted talent was unknown here hadn’t even crossed his mind. But he refused to believe that all was lost. That was just one sorcerer. There might not be many now but there must be more. This one not knowing didn’t mean no one knew. It didn’t. He could still fix this.

  But more than anything else right now he didn’t want to think about it. He wanted to have a drink with his friends, his Mareker friends, and enjoy being here. He could worry about sorcerers again in the morning. Just like he’d been telling himself for the last half-year, and now suddenly maybe he was wrong. Dammit.

  Asa appeared in the doorway and stopped just inside, looking around. Jonas waved a hand, and they nodded at him and made their way over through the messengers, market porters, musicians, and the odd thief (strictly off-duty) who made up the clientele of the Dog’s Tail.

  “Evening,” Jonas said, grinning lazily up at Asa, when they reached the table. “Tam not with you?”

  Asa shrugged. “He was until half a street back. Said he’d seen someone, he’d be along in a minute. Did you get ours in while you were waiting?”

  Jonas spread his hands. “Didn’t know how long you’d be, did I? Wouldn’t want it to go stale. More stale.”

  Asa rolled their eyes and went to the bar, returning a couple of minutes later with three pints.

  “Here you go, and don’t say I never get you anything. Which reminds me – how’d you get on with the sorcerer?”

  “Well, she didn’t turn me into a fish,” Jonas said, “and she tipped well, so I guess it went fine. Thanks, Asa. I suppose it sounds daft to you, wanting to meet a real live sorcerer.”

  Asa hadn’t handed that job over of their own accord; they’d mentioned to him, when Jonas had run into them around lunchtime, that they were booked by the sorcerer out back of the Old Market, and he’d convinced them to swap him the job. He’d claimed it was tourist interest – he’d never seen a real Marek sorcerer before – which was true enough, and stood Asa a poke of fried potatoes for lunch in thanks.

  “You could have just commissioned her,” Asa said. “Real actual magic, not just gawping.”

  Jonas shuddered. “No thank you.”

  And what would removing his flickers have been, if she’d been able to do it, but real magic? He preferred not to consider that further, on the whole.

  “Ah, you Salinas are just superstitious,” Asa said cheerfully. “I spent half my childhood with my mum sending me to the sorcerer down the street for vile cold remedies. His room proper reeked, it did, and he was worse himself. Not sure it was any great loss when the plague got him.”

  Jonas remembered the first time he’d ever asked his mother about magic, when he was a child himself. He’d realised by then what his flickers were, and that other people didn’t have them; realised in time to avoid telling anyone about them. But he’d wondered, enough to ask, about magic. His mother’s face had shuttered off immediately.

  “No,” she had said firmly. “Salinas do not do magic. Magic and the sea do not mix.”

  He hadn’t been able to stop his flickers from happening, though he’d tried. And, in the end, he hadn’t been able to hide them from his mother, either. He thought again of those New Year flags. He was running out of time, if he didn’t want to stay another year, and what would his mother think of that? He scowled into his beer.

  “Few years back,” Asa said, “no way you could have been in Marek for half a year and not seen a sorcerer. Loads of them. Well. A fair few, anyway. Now it’s just her, and that bloke lives in the dodgy part of the squats. I wouldn’t recommend going gawping round at him. He’d magic your bollocks off soon as look at you.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Jonas said drily, suddenly awash with relief. There was another sorcerer,
and maybe he would know something. He would. He had to. It sounded like he wouldn’t be able to get away with idle enquiries, there, though. He’d have to – what, to admit to it? Outright? To commission this sorcerer properly? He swallowed. Tomorrow. He’d think about it tomorrow.

  “What was it like, though, growing up on a ship?” Asa asked. “I mean, other than that you didn’t have sorcerers round the corner. I mean, I suppose you didn’t have anything round the corner, right?”

  “I didn’t exactly grow up on a ship,” Jonas said. “My mother’s a captain, right enough, but I was only away with her eight months in the ten, and it wasn’t every year, not quite.”

  “Eight months in ten is growing up on a ship, even if it wasn’t quite every year,” Asa said. “What happened the other two months, then?”

  “That’s New Year – what you call Mid-Year, when the seas are too rough to be sailing,” Jonas said. “We all go back to Salina. People swap crews, if they’ve a mind to, and folk who’ve stayed back that year or who’ve come of age join them, and folk retire or stop home for a while.” He remembered the intensity of those two months, so many people on the islands that usually only held a fraction of them, so many relationships being negotiated and re-negotiated in a way that as a child he’d only barely understood.

  “Come of age?” Asa asked. “But I thought you said you sailed as a kid.”

  “I did. Not everyone does. Some stay home to raise kids. Some leave their kids with other families. My father was going to stay home, but they died when I was very young. Mama took me to sea with her, when I was little, rather than leave me with my aunt or uncle. Though she did that once or twice, for some voyages. I’m not the only one, sure, but most kids grow up on the islands.” He’d preferred the ship, though; the years he’d been left behind had felt like abandonment.

  “Huh,” Asa said. “It’s neat, though, that you got to see so many places. I’ve never been out of Marek.”