He calls her name. No answer. He calls again as he runs from room to room on the lower floor. He checks the second and the sundeck. She’s gone.
Livion leans over the railing and asks his neighbors, “Did any of you see Trist leave?”
The Blue Islander says, “First he can’t find a dragon. Now he can’t find his partner. Don’t lift your feet, Livion. Your house might disappear.” This gets a bigger laugh than before. Apparently not just the rabble was into the wine today.
The Blue Islander’s partner, exactly the person he deserves, says, “Maybe the dragon got her.”
“That’s not funny,” Livion says. “I don’t think that’s funny at all.” They laugh harder.
Why is he so worried? The city was searched. No dragon was found.
Then again, if a dragon wasn’t found, neither was the person who might have slit his girl’s throat and disemboweled the other maid.
A quarter hour later he knocks on the wicket in Asper’s gates in the Crest. A house guard hands him off to a footman, who leads him into a treelined and torchlit courtyard. Livion’s entire house would fit into it. The courtyard surrounds a black-bottomed pool that reflects the house. The footman installs him in a corner with granite benches where he can watch a school of bronze orfe dart through second-story windows.
It would be a pleasant retreat but for the figures of emperor snakes worked discreetly into the tiles and torch holders surrounding the pool.
Asper flows in and greets him warmly. She says, “I spoke sharply to you this morning. I hope you understand: I had a long night.”
“I’m looking for Trist.”
“I haven’t seen her all day,” Asper says. “Maybe she’s at her father’s.”
“I was going to check there next,” he says and stands, a little wobbly. “If she were here, it’d mean she hadn’t left me. If she’s there—”
“Here. Sit,” Asper says. “This can’t have been an easy day for either of you.” She sits on the bench.
Livion doesn’t know what to make of this. He sits anyway. She gestures for her footman to leave.
“You’re not alone,” she says. “I believe you about the dragon. It makes sense. And we’re not alone. Other owners, in the Shield and out, they believe too.” She laughs. “I heard it from their wives. They’d like to say publicly that war is bad for business, but they don’t want to look soft, which is also bad for business.” She touches his arm. “Will there be war? Chelson won’t tell me anything. I need to know.”
Livion thinks of Herse’s hand on his shoulder. Maybe she and these silent owners could protect him if he helped them find their voice. “Yes,” he says.
She compresses her mouth. “I thought so,” she says. “Tabs is special to me. I hope we can be friends too.”
Livion says, “Me too.”
“Go,” she says. “And when you find her send me word so I know she’s all right.”
Outside Livion watches the people on the street ignore him: Asper’s neighbors, servants, peddlers. It’s a ghost night, the Dawn Landers would call it. When you feel lost in sight of all.
Once Asper hears the wicket close behind Livion, she goes through the main hall to the stairs. In a guest room Tristaban is lying on a couch, soft and half-asleep. “You should have been home hours ago, Tabs,” Asper says. “At least in the dark no one will see you leave.”
Chelson lives on a higher street than Asper and in the tonier West Crest. His lane is more a promenade: gated, tree lined, and far wider than most because the tenants on the uphill side bought and razed the homes across from them to increase their views. Led there by a footman, Herse finds the lane indulgent in such a crowded and, for the most part, impoverished city.
His first home was a one-room shack his father built on scavenged beams over an alley in the Harbor. Loosely moored, it rocked like a galley until shacks were built around it and, in time, above it. He and his siblings had endless hours of fun dashing across rooftops. The summer he was six, he never touched the street, doing his piecework on high, playing hip ball on a slant, and drenching the unsuspecting with their communal bucket from increasingly clever blinds. Eventually the Council declared the shacks a blight and tore them down. His family moved to Hanoshi Town, but his father returned to the site every day for a year to build a warehouse complex. “Job’s a job,” he told his furious son, “system’s the system.” From the start his father called the complex the Castle.
Herse and Rego are admitted into Chelson’s courtyard by one of his personal guards. The fineness of the man’s uniform can’t hide the brutality advertised by his half-red eye and hatchet.
The courtyard’s no less brutal: shadowy, seatless, faced with unfinished gray stone, and decorated with six pedestals displaying nothing. Passed to a footman, Herse and Rego are installed in a small room with a stone bench and an iron brazier that offers little heat.
“Try out the bench,” Herse says. “I want to see something.”
Rego sits, back upright, head held high. He shrugs and is about to say, “I don’t understand,” when his butt shifts. He shifts it back, and it shifts again. Herse smiles. Rego says, “I can’t quite get comfortable.”
“The little trick of little men,” Herse says. “You can’t tell in this light, but the seat is deformed. And there’s only one, which Chelson will insist we take, so he can loom over us.”
Chelson slides through the doorway followed by Red Eye. He says, “My footman should have invited you to sit. If you will.” He holds out his arm.
Herse says, “We’re fine.” Rego can feel the tension in Herse’s chin as Chelson looks up at it. Herse says, “I think we can solve our mutual problem. Rego.”
Rego describes the cinnamon deal. “Omer probably dealt with Livion.”
Herse says, “Do you know anything about this?”
“No,” Chelson says, “but such deals aren’t uncommon. The rider would get a finder’s fee.”
“What if Livion planned to cut you out of the deal?” Herse says.
“He wouldn’t do that,” Chelson says.
“You said something similar before Council,” Herse says. “And this deal was nothing for the Shield, but it might mean twenty purses to Livion, a nice sum for a junior with a new home and a partner with aspirations.”
“Indeed,” Chelson says.
“What if,” Herse says, “Omer cut Livion in, and Livion decided to cut him out? I saw the rider’s wounds. No dragon made them. Nor did a dragon kill his servant, who might have stumbled into the middle of things. He was the last to see both.”
“Are you saying he killed them?” Chelson says. “Over some cinnamon?”
“I’m just drawing a picture,” Herse says. He glances at Red Eye’s hatchet. “One man’s cinnamon is another’s city.”
Chelson’s face darkens to Herse’s satisfaction. Mystery solved.
“So why didn’t he complete the deal?” Chelson says. “What happened to that other maid?”
“He had no chance,” Rego says, “given what happened at Council. And she wouldn’t be the first person to fall prey to the night, then to the rats.”
“Do you have any proof?” Chelson asks.
“Proof is in the eyes of the Council,” Herse says. “Ject’s search for the dragon may have been fruitless, but it’s left the city confused. Once you say there’s a dragon, there’s a dragon. If we say Livion’s story was meant to cover up murders, that will discredit him, and we can get on with business.”
“Ject would never go for it,” Chelson says. “However compromised he is.”
“If Livion’s lies distracted Hanosh from defending itself,” Herse says, “then it’s an army matter. We can argue jurisdiction later. Call another special council. And I’ll have the material brought in to sweeten the pot.”
The footman appears. “Your son-in-law is here,” he s
ays.
“Bring him in,” Chelson says, deciding something. To Red Eye he adds, “Holestar, have your men join us. And fetch a head sack.”
8
* * *
Tristaban winds her way down through Artisans. She hasn’t decided what she’ll tell Livion, if anything. She doesn’t need a chance encounter to complicate matters.
She doesn’t know the district as well as she imagined, and finds herself in Workers with its streets missing half their cobbles and alleys full of eyes. She tries to get to a Hill street, but the lack of streetlamps and the bizarre layout of the houses drains her nearly to the Rookery before spilling her out across from Servants.
She crosses the street, sees her horrible neighbors from Blue Island wobbling out of a quick nip, and ducks into a lane running behind a dormitory. It’s barely better lit than those across the street, but at least she knows the way up.
Two stairways, a lane, and an alley later, she stands beneath a dim streetlamp and realizes she’s lost. She decides to make her way to the Quiet Tower. Surely a guard would escort her home.
It’s oddly quiet here. Most day servants should be home or coming home. Or is she beyond their quarters? Surely they can’t be hiding from a dragon. It hits her: She’s done with Livion. How can she stay with the Boy Who Cried Dragon? She’ll be a laughingstock. No one would blame her for dissolving their partnership. Her father would make it simple.
She descends a long flight of stairs into darkness and finds herself behind a warehouse. She turns west and after a few dozen yards finds another stairway switchbacking up. The Quiet Tower looms not far above its top.
At the first turn a shoe scuffs behind her. In the dim light seeping around a nearby shutter she sees shadow sliding against shadow. She would call out, but she doesn’t want to draw attention to herself. Another scuff. She eases onto the next stair. It could be anyone behind her, a guard, a worker, a maid. Scuff. Two more steps. Three quick scuffs and Tristaban runs. She doesn’t see the next switchback, trips and sprawls, smacking her jaw. It splits and blood runs down her neck.
The shadow falls over her. Its hands work their way up her body to grab her hair and yank her head back. Fingers scuttle over her lips and clamp themselves across her mouth. The shadow straddles her waist and pins her.
It whispers, “Be quiet, and we won’t hurt you. Understand?”
She nods against his hands. Its fingers are rough on her lips. She wishes she’d brought Livion’s whistle.
“Good,” it says. “You don’t want to end up like that maid. We had to remove her throat to show her we meant business.”
Tristaban nods again. It releases her hair to rummage in a pocket. A cork pops, and a sickly sweet smell wafts over her. It’s like burnt apple wine, but she can’t place it. A small bottle clinks on a step above her head, then she hears a cloth set beside it, and she knows what it’s going to do.
She bites his fingers deep enough to grind a knuckle. It yanks the hand free, cursing, and she howls for all she’s worth. Shocked by her resistance, it stands slightly as if it might run. She launches herself upward, knocking it backward down the stairs. Shutters creak open. Candles are held out of a dozen windows. Voices call out to her. She doesn’t answer and flies up the stairs, kicking the bottle so hard it shatters.
Two alleys and another stairway and she’s on Brimurray, huffing, her dress soiled, her face a mass of sweat. She’s smiling, though. She fought him off. She’ll be scared later. For now, she’s won. The light from the freshly lit street lanterns feels like a dusting of gold.
Tristaban rifles through her hamondey for her key and strides to her door. A bearded man pushes a black wooden barrow toward her. It’s two-wheeled and deep, with a sagging canvas cover. She thinks it’s early for the night soil man, and then realizes that without the girl she’ll have to deal with their private matters herself. Maybe for a penny he will. His sandals are old and oft-repaired, but clean enough to come inside. Yes, she deserves that after what she just did. She’s gotten her hands dirty enough today.
Tristaban waves the man over and says, “I need your help. Will you bring out for me . . .” She points to the barrow.
“Of course,” the man in the black shift says.
She rummages in her bag for her key, unlocks the door, and steps back. They stand together a moment before Tristaban nods at the latch. The man says, “Yes,” and opens the door for her. As he does, she looks at the barrow. It seems empty. It barely reeks.
“First stop of the night?” she says, feeling magnanimous. She enters and lights a wall sconce. “It must smell terrible by the last.”
“It’s not too bad,” he says, stepping inside. “With that canvas covering the barrow, I can imagine I’m carrying anything. Honestly, so does everyone I pass.” He presses the door closed.
CHAPTER NINE
The Generals
1
* * *
Once Livion is grabbed, bagged, and dragged away to Gate, Chelson sends the footman to bring his daughter to him as soon as she arrives home.
As he hurries downhill, Ophardt dreams of up-partnering. Livion will lose his home and place, given what he overheard his master and the general discussing. It would be a difficult match, but he wouldn’t be the first footman to leap a few rungs to an owner’s daughter. And Tristaban does flirt with him whenever he escorts her. She even uses his name now.
Ophardt turns the corner into Brimurray and bounces off a heavy barrow. He brushes at his stiff uniform in case any filth clung to it. Tristaban despises dirt. He tells the barrowman, “Watch where you’re going.” The barrowman swiftly replaces the cover dragged off a corner of the cart then bows his head in apology, eyes wide with concern. Good, Ophardt thinks. He should know when he’s offended someone from a Crest house. He should be afraid.
The footman knocks at Tris’s door. As he expected, there’s no answer and no light inside. The door is locked. He leans against the door to wait. He likes finding her at home, especially when she pokes through the curtain of flowers on her sundeck to gaze down at him. A minute passes. He bucks himself up and knocks harder. No answer. He looks through the small window beside the door, and what he sees in the glow from the streetlights sends him loping uphill.
Chelson, followed by his three personal guards, storms into Brimurray. The one with the crooked nose pounds on the door. He reaches for the latch. Chelson jabs at the door. Crooked Nose breaks it open on the third slam.
The foyer is disarrayed. A small bench lies on its side. The decorative tray for Livion’s boots has been overturned and kicked halfway into the hall. Oddments from shelves are scattered, the wall sconce is shattered, and blood splotches one wall.
Holestar yanks out his hatchet, the two others their dirks, and he leads Crooked Nose through the house while the third guard stays outside with Chelson.
He’s stolen my daughter’s life, Chelson thinks.
No, Chelson counters himself. He couldn’t have. He was definitely worried when he came to Chelson’s house. A trader’s first skill is reading minds. Livion’s too stupidly open to fool him. Had he just killed Tristaban, Chelson would have known.
Besides, Livion’s incapable of murder. Personally, Chelson likes the boy. He’s perfect for his daughter, happy to be imposed upon, and willing to watch her drama instead of staging a competing show. If Livion didn’t drain away her craziness, he’d have to deal with it.
Despite all that’s happened, he has to admit he was lucky his daughter had accepted Livion. The junior wasn’t his first choice. He’d planned to partner Tristaban with his old captain Jeryon, another person dependably meek and meekly dependable, before he got himself killed and Livion showed his quality. Sometimes the best man does win, he thinks.
Whoever did do this will find that out himself, and what it’s like to lose to Chelson.
The guards emerge. Holestar shakes his head. �
��Nobody,” he says, “and no body.”
Ophardt runs down Brimurray with a squad of city guards carrying lanterns. Chelson greets them solemnly and points the sergeant to the foyer.
As the sergeant holds up a lantern to examine the debris and the city guards fan out to keep the gathering neighbors back, Chelson gives the footman a ferocious look. “Why did you bring the guards?” he whispers. “We handle house matters in-house. You should know that by now.”
Ophardt shrinks, hoping he will at least be kept on as a soil boy.
The sergeant touches the blood on the wall, slides outside, and closes the door to prevent gawking. He questions the footman, who tells him when he came, why, and what he saw. The sergeant asks if he saw anyone else on the lane; the blood is fresh so the killer might have been nearby. The footman scans the neighbors. They shrink back. Doors and windows close. Ophardt says he didn’t see anyone suspicious.
Chelson is about to say that he fears his son-in-law was involved when the sergeant bends and holds the lantern near the footman’s waist. It reveals a thin red smudge across his uniform. “Oh,” Ophardt says, “there was the barrowman.”
2
* * *
Near midnight Ject bars the door to his office and steps to a darkwood counter mounted on the wall. He dons a crisp white sleeveless tunic, lights several beeswax candles on the counter with a straw from his grate, and unrolls a red woven mat between them. Onto it he sets a white ceramic pot filled with clean water and covered with a white cloth. Next to this he arrays several objects removed from a finely carved box: an unhoned snow-white blade of deer bone, a tin with yellow paste, another with black, two more white cloths, rolled, and a horsehair brush with a black oak handle. He stretches and looks out the window above the counter, but the candles have snuffed his view of the lamplit Upper City. He pulls off his boots, stands one on the mat, dips a cloth in the water, and cleans it while considering what he knows.
The Dragon Round Page 25