by Megan Derr
Laughing, Kinnaird said, "It is entirely your fault. I came to fetch those papers, and you looked too distressed for me to do anything but try and comfort."
"Be quiet," Reyes said, dipping a quill and writing as quickly as he could without sacrificing neatness.
Kinnaird subsided with a last chuckle.
Reyes worked swiftly, setting the papers to dry while he prepared the special inks for the notarizations and seals. Several minutes later, everything was finally ready and he handed Kinnaird a leather portfolio with the papers inside. "Two complete sets, permitting you to act with the full weight of the throne." He fell silent a moment, then said to Kinnaird's chest, "Come back. Alive."
Kinnaird put a finger beneath his chin, and tilted his face up. "I promise."
"Good," Reyes muttered.
"Do I get a kiss goodbye?" Kinnaird teased.
Reyes rolled his eyes, but for once gave in to the impulse he had always fought, to sink his hand into Kinnaird's thick hair and drag him down for a very long and thorough kiss.
They were both out of breath when they finally drew apart.
"I had better go," Kinnaird said, though he clearly wanted to do no such thing. "Send your thoughts, my dear, should I need them to find my way."
"Get," Reyes said, and shoved him toward the door.
Smiling, Kinnaird finally departed.
Reyes moved back to his desk and collapsed in his chair, burying his face in one hand.
He nearly jumped out his chair when the door to the King's office opened from the other side, and the King stepped out. No one could get to that office, not even the King, without first going through Reyes' office. "Majesty—Rhoten—How?"
Rhoten burst out laughing. "It is a good thing that everyone else knocks, Reyes. The two of you were so intent upon each other, you did not see or hear me walking through. Quite unusual for Kinnaird. You must have him well and truly snared, hmm?" He winked. "Let me know when the first appointment has arrived. Those are beautiful flowers." Then he went back into his office, closing the door quietly behind him.
Reyes sat back down, and let his head fall to thump against the top of his desk, groaning in mortification. Royal secretary, and the King had caught him exchanging heavy kisses with the Duke of Keyes. In the office.
It really did not soothe him that the King sanctioned their relationship—not that they had one, because they didn't, because that would be the epitome of foolish. He was going to kill Kinnaird.
Making a face, Reyes opened his portfolio to check over the day's schedule, made a few adjustments, then set it aside. Pulling out paper and ink and sealing supplies, he began to compose necessary letters, orders, warrants, and other such things, ringing constantly for servants and runners, keeping himself too busy to think.
Six
Kinnaird stood impassively as more bodies were carried away from the smoking wreckage that was a good portion of the Great Bridge of Cassala. The gruesome work was made all the worse by the fact that it must be done during Extended Night; the absolute dark required additional lighting, further straining and taxing people who already had grief and fear burdening them.
There were six major cities of trade in Elamas. Two of them were strictly on the coast. Three of them were strictly on the river. One, the greatest of them, Cassala, was built where river met ocean.
The Great Bridge was nearly as old as the country itself. One of his ancestors had helped in its building. He had a distant cousin who captained one of the great trade ships of Elamas, and had himself a number of shares in the greater merchant houses.
As no doubt intended, the tragedy went far beyond the lives lost. Homes were lost, businesses, livelihoods…it hurt, period. Nothing else could dishearten and discourage a people faster. Kinnaird wondered if perhaps that was the point. But, if so, why bother with all the failed attacks? Why go to so much trouble to engineer failure, and then this terrible success?
"The whole thing does rather make one wonder what they could have done at the other locations," Dilane murmured beside him. "Whoever is doing this, I greatly fear those failures could all too easily have been successes."
"Yes," Kinnaird replied. "I fear that is the message they are trying to send, though the ultimate purpose eludes me. The question then becomes, who has the ability to obtain the information necessary to orchestrate so onerous an undertaking as these various attacks? Never mind nearly destroy Cassala."
Dilane's mouth tightened, eyes dark with emotion as he surveyed the terrible chaos slowly being set to rights below. "Someone powerful. Someone who should not have abused his power so." His voice dropped even lower, thin and miserable. "We are supposed to be stronger than this, Kinnaird."
"We are," Kinnaird agreed, and smiled at him. "Go be Crown Prince. Do not let your people despair. Leave the finding of the traitor to me; that is my purpose."
Nodding, Dilane clasped his shoulder, then slowly withdrew to go to the people hovering a short distance away, plainly waiting none too patiently for him. "As you say, Falcon. Find the traitor. Be careful. I do not want to be the one to tell your poor little secretary you are dead or grievously wounded."
Kinnaird grinned. "If you like us both breathing, do not let him hear you call him my poor little secretary."
Dilane briefly returned the smile, then headed off, leaving Kinnaird to watch the clean up alone. He let his mind drift.
The Northern Treasury.
The Southern Monastery.
A great ship of the trade fleets.
The river city of Talon.
Cassala.
Such a wide range of locations; they were each days and even weeks apart. Yet the attacks were all close together. That took a great many people, and even more time. The attack on Cassala alone would have taken months, even years, to plan.
What did the attacks have to do with Gandy? It was obvious he must be part of it, but to what purpose? It would make sense if the attacks were used in such a way as to discredit the King and puff up Gandy by setting him up to solve the sudden flood of problems. But he was doing no such thing, not even trying.
It gave Kinnaird a headache, trying to create the pieces he could not locate.
"Your Grace?" a voice asked, the tone cautious, hesitant.
"Yes?" Kinnaird asked, turning around to see a man of some thirty-forty years standing smartly at attention. He wore sturdy, heavy-weight brown pants, tucked into durable work boots. His jacket was a mellow red-brown, with the symbol of a sun sinking into the horizon stitched over his heart. The uniform and crest of the Bridge Guild. Opposite the sun crest were the stripes of a Deputy.
"I am Deputy Larsen, your Grace." He faltered then, briefly, but after a moment regained control of himself. "Well, I am acting Chief, as Chief—he died in the bridge fire. But, they said you wanted a full accounting, your Grace. I am here to give it, as best I am able."
Kinnaird nodded, and motioned Larsen forward. "I thank you, Deputy, for coming so promptly. I know how busy you must be, and how much you must be going through. You have my condolences, for what they are worth."
"Thank you," Larsen said quietly, his eyes going to the wreckage below as he joined Kinnaird on the guard post overlooking the bridge and market grounds below. "It was terrible, when they ripped the magic from us. They didn't completely succeed, only wrenched the magic from about a third of us, but that's enough, wasn't it? Like having your skin ripped off, only deeper and far more painful. You know?"
"Yes," Kinnaird said quietly. "I know all too well how it feels to have your magic torn away, wrenched from your control."
"So our heat shields went down immediately, and they used the power to start the fires. We were struggling to make the most of what remained, to fight off the cold, and trying to get ours back when the bridge…" His face twisted as he looked at the smoldering remains of the major portion of the bridge. It would be months before Elamas could do anything with the bridge upon which they relied so heavily. The ice could be traveled, of course, for m
ost of the year, but it was much safer and faster to use the Great Bridge, protected by magic and guarded heavily on both ends.
The bridge could and would be rebuilt, of course, but it was a lot of time and money lost in the meantime, and Elamas could ill afford the loss of either. "When does the repair work begin?" Kinnaird asked, because somewhere amidst the tragedy and chaos, the Guild would already be doing what needed to be done.
"Day after tomorrow, ideally," Larsen replied. "It is a matter of funds, but the city is already arranging them as best it can. Many will help out of personal pocket, we hope. But, they will also be helping the injured, and to rebuild the fallen buildings and houses. The bridge… well, it cost enough to build it the first time, didn't it?"
"If you need letters or permits to command special funds, let me know. I will have them drawn up at once." Chances were, Kinnaird knew, Reyes had included them in the portfolio already. Reyes was nothing if not thorough.
"Yes, your Grace. Thank you."
Kinnaird nodded, then said, "What I most need from you, Deputy, is anything suspicious you may have seen over the past few weeks or months. I know the chances are slight, but…"
Larsen's mouth twisted. "On the contrary, your Grace. I have men who were much closer and more involved in the tragedy, whom I could have sent to give an accounting. I came myself because I had more to tell you than they could offer, ultimately. To my eternal shame, I suspect I should have said something sooner."
"Speak now."
"I thought the Chief was having an affair," Larsen said, looking out over the city. "That is why I never said anything, why it never struck me as particularly odd, until now. She came every couple of weeks, covered head to toe in that massive cloak, smelling sticky-sweet."
Kinnaird's interest sharpened. "A woman?"
"I always thought so, but as I said, she wore that enormous cloak—a man's cloak. Could have been anything, anyone, even with that scent. It's the scent I remember best, because it was strange for a place like the Bridge Guild building. Didn't strike me as the sort of perfume worn by ladies of the evening, either. Too nice for the cheap ones, too tacky for the expensive ones, eh?"
"Yes," Kinnaird agreed. "I take your point. What was the scent?"
"She smelled like children's sweets. Cherries, definitely. Sugary, but I could not tell you the specifics. I've no nose for it. I only know the cherries because my wife is fond of the things, when we buy them once a year for Extended Day."
Kinnaird nodded. "What else?"
"She came every couple of weeks, like I said. He had a lot of visitors, always socializing, bribing, buttering up, that sort of thing. Politicians." He shrugged. "But that one… she came regular like, more often than the other few regulars. Always thought they had something going on, he didn't want the wife to know, but as time passed… well, he wanted her, definitely. He was also afraid of her."
"I see," Kinnaird said. "Know anything else at all about her?"
Larsen grimaced. "No. I learned early on to stay well away from the Chief's guests. One broke my nose, when I got too curious, back when I was just a bridge spider. Kept my nose clean after that."
"No doubt a wise decision," Kinnaird replied. "Thank you, Deputy. I may come find you later, should I have further questions."
"Of course, your Grace. If I'm not here, I'll be at our main office." He bowed, then turned and left.
Kinnaird turned over the new bits of information in his mind, pondering. But, with so little to go on, he had no hope of deducing the woman's identity. Someone from Galand, no doubt. In such a vast trade city, no one would notice one foreign merchant out of the thousands that flooded the city every day.
Sticky sweet. He felt he should know that scent, but was not certain why. Honestly, it could belong to anyone—male or female. The Deputy had said he thought the person female, but could not say with absolute certainty.
Well, he could not investigate the stranger. That would in all likelihood get him nowhere. So, he would begin with the chief, and hope that he learned something of the stranger by happenstance. Decided, he abandoned his lookout post and made his way back down to the city proper, blending into the crowds of people too restless, to anxious, to stay inside as they might otherwise have done.
Navigating through them was no easy task, made all the more difficult by the smoke from lamps, the dim light where people could not afford or did not bother with anything past the mage lamps. He spoke with several people, working through shop keeps and merchants, sailors and dock workers. None really helped much, though he was beginning to get a solid image of the late Chief.
A bridge worker—one of those who did the actual hands on work that they called bridge spiders—looked up as he passed, and greeted, "Your Grace. Did you need something?"
Kinnaird smiled self-deprecatingly and spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "I feel that it is I who should be asking you that question. Deputy Larsen looked quite exhausted. It cannot be easy, on top of so much destruction and grief, to have your Chief counted amongst the casualties."
The man looked at him for a long minute or two, then grunted and looked back down at his work. "As to that, sun and moon forgive ill words of the dead, the Chief did his part well enough but all that political and social hobnobbing don't repair the bridge, do it? Just slows up the work while we do his favors to soothe the fat cats in the city. Tragedy, aye. But to be honest, your Grace, Deputy Larsen were already more Chief than the Chief. He weren't a bad man, exactly—just weren't a good Chief. Catch me?"
"Yes, and I appreciate your honesty," Kinnaird saying, meaning it. No one else had been half so helpful the entire day, other than Deputy Larsen. Kinnaird flipped the man a coin, then moved on, lost in thought.
So the Chief mucked about in politics and the like. There was a tricky bridge to cross, indeed, especially in Cassala, where the imports must be so closely watched and feathers constantly soothed against being ruffled. There was the Great Bridge to watch, the ocean harbors, and the countless smugglers who had strong opinions about the hefty tariffs levied against imported goods.
Who better to have in one's pocket than the Chief of the Bridge Guild? He was in position to do a great many things, should he be so inclined. Kinnaird wondered, angry and sad, what a sticky-sweet scent and a smooth, sticky-sweet touch had persuaded the Chief to be inclined to do.
Hmmm. Men with sticky fingers nearly always had one problem in common—that their fingers were not sticky enough to hold on to their gold. Veering away from the crowds working to do what they could for the bridge, striding past the medical tents where he left gold in the hands of a worn-out looking Master Healer, he made his way to the seedier sections of the city.
There, he wended his way through dark, confusing streets to the gaming halls. If this wasn't where the Chief's sticky fingers mired him, then he was at least smart enough not to give in to weakness in Cassala. There were several gaming halls, of varying sizes, but they were all secretly controlled by one person—the very person who more or less owned the underworld of Cassala, minus the smugglers who were an entity unto themselves.
He entered the largest and most popular of the hells, ignoring the doormen and the guards posted in the entryway. One of them tried to take issue, obviously new, but Kinnaird left it to the other guard to inform the new one as to Kinnaird's identity. He waited in the lobby for the manager to come, and when the man arrived said only, "I wish to speak with him. Now."
Bowing, the manager turned sharply on his heel and led Kinnaird through the back halls, up a set of stairs, down the hall past all the private game rooms, and finally to a set of ornately carved double doors. "Your Grace."
Thanking him, Kinnaird waited until the man had vanished, then let himself inside, closing the doors quietly behind him. Across the room, standing in front of the fire in such a way to put herself in the best possible light, was a tall, full-figured woman. She was dressed as fine, if not finer, as any Queen, and was easily the most beautiful woman in the coun
try. Precious few knew that the underworld of Cassala was run by a woman.
She presented her hand as he drew close, and he took it in both of his, kissing the knuckles, then turning it to kiss the wrist, and finally reaching up to kiss her cheek. "Sharla, it is good to see you." Very good to see her; he had not realized until he saw her that she could easily have been amongst the dead. Thank sun and moon that was not the case.
"Oh, bah," Sharla replied, but smiled, painted blood-red lips glistening in the firelight. They matched perfectly the stiff satin of her bodice, edged in black lace. The same lace formed ruffles along the bottom of her red silk skirt. Roses of the exact same shade, for she never achieved less than perfection, were pinned into the carefully artless tumble of her honey-gold curls. She was an image pretty enough to make men drop to their knees, but she had never affected him. It was no small part of the reason she respected and liked him.
He breathed in her scent before drawing completely back. "Roses and musk. Very becoming. I guess you cannot be my mysterious woman with a sticky-sweet scent."
Sharla wrinkled her nose. "If that is what you favor, my darling Duke, I can point the way to the appropriate houses. Here, we do try to at least pretend to class."
"My dear," Kinnaird drawled, "you could teach class to many of my so-called peers. But you know my tastes, and I am not here to discuss them, anyway."
Nodding, Sharla moved to sit behind her enormous desk. She pulled out a thin cigarette and placed it in a black holder, then lit it at the candle on her desk. Blowing out a thin stream of smoke, she settled back in her seat and said, "About whom do you wish to inquire?"
"The late Bridge Chief."
"Ah," Sharla replied.
Kinnaird could see she was surprised, though her face gave nothing away. He said nothing, but wondered precisely whom she had expected him to ask after.
She blew out another stream of pungent smoke. "He is not one for wasting his money at the tables downstairs. He gambles in social fashion only, and never more than he must to keep up appearances—he is also responsible with it. But," she added when Kinnaird started to speak, "he watches it for very good reason. He needs his money to afford the girls he prefers. None of mine, but I do keep an eye on that house."