by Matthew Ward
Josiri shook his head. “Hardly that, Izack.”
He was a liar, for starters, and as smooth-tongued a rogue who’d ever worked a hustle. There’d been no prospect of the Knights Essamere joining the raid, because there’d been no conversation. But even Josiri, who knew Izack’s corroboration was entirely false, found nothing in voice or expression to offer contradiction.
“Then your judgement is every bit as suspect as Josiri’s,” said Lamirov.
“Wasn’t aware I needed your permission to give a bunch of scoundrels a good thumping.” Izack drummed idly on the table and hoisted himself upright. “Tell you what. Next time the Hadari are clamouring at the crossings of the Ravonn, the gates of Chapterhouse Essamere and those of its vigils scattered up and down the Silverway will stay shut until ordered otherwise. Just remind me. Does that need a two-thirds vote, or a simple majority?”
Lord Lamirov levelled a scowl. “That’s hardly the same thing!”
“Right enough. We’ve the prospect of lasting peace with the Hadari, if the First Councillor’s to be believed. But the Crowmarket? There’s no peace there. Vermin under-bloody-foot, stealing whatever isn’t nailed down and slipping their knives into all kinds of uncomfortable places.”
“No one’s arguing the vranakin aren’t a problem,” said Erashel. “But we must act together. The people need leaders, not restless souls with something to prove.”
“Perhaps we should put the matter to a vote?” said Lord Lamirov.
Josiri bit back a scowl. There it was. Now Erashel had done all the work, Lord Lamirov was closing for the kill. There had to be a way of recovering the situation. “I don’t think—”
Izack’s fingers ceased their drumming. “You want a vote? I’ve something we can all get behind.” He raised his right hand. “Here’s my proposal. That we take advantage of the lack of mischief on the border and go into Dregmeet mob-handed. Turn over every stone, pull down every rotting building and arrest or stab anything that scurries for cover, depending on how the fancy takes us.”
Josiri’s pulse quickened. Izack’s suggestion went far beyond what he’d hoped to achieve. It would drive the Grand Council to apoplexy, fearful of retribution from the vranakin whose bribes lined their pockets, and whose favour ensured that secrets remained closely held. But it might just break the Crowmarket’s power for good.
“You’re talking about half the dockside,” said Lord Marest. “We’d need hundreds of soldiers. Thousands!”
Izack tugged at the neck of his surcoat. “You need the troops, I’ll find you the troops. All you need do is raise your right hand, and say ‘aye’. Maybe offer a prayer to Lumestra, if you can find it in you. That can’t hurt.” He slapped the table, provoking a flinch from Lady Tarev. “What do you say? Josiri? This morning give you a taste for plucking feathers?”
He raised his hand. “Why not? Aye.”
“Good man. What about the rest of you? Evarn? Rika? Leonast?” Izack twisted in his seat. Each looked away in turn. “No? What about you, Messela? Viktor would have jumped at the chance. Show us some of that Akadra fire, eh?”
Josiri winced back the flood of mixed emotion at the name. Messela didn’t move a muscle. She, at least, had learnt that the best way to keep one’s dignity in the face of Izack’s stare was to make no attempt at contesting it.
“I vote aye.” Erashel offered a lopsided shrug. “I’ve no objection to actions, when preceded by the proper words.”
More likely, she’d concluded that Izack was a more valuable ally than Lord Lamirov. Which was true enough. Lord Lamirov could empty his vaults of every last golden crown and still not purchase the loyalty of Essamere. Josiri’s mother had attempted much the same, and lost a war for it.
“Three in favour,” said Izack. “Care to join the sortie, First Councillor?”
Malachi remained silent, the forefinger of his left hand tapping silently against the armrest of his high-backed chair. His expression gave no clue to his thoughts. To Josiri’s mind, it had been increasingly so of late – a consequence of too much time spent shepherding the Republic’s twin councils. Politics was too often about masking one’s intentions until they yielded advantage. Josiri understood the principle, even if mastery escaped his grasp.
“I vote ‘aye’.” Messela raised her right hand, the tremulous motion growing steady with increasing confidence. She even raised her eyes from the table. “You’re right, Izack. My cousin wouldn’t have hesitated.”
Izack grinned. Lord Lamirov paled. Neither Lady Tarev nor Lord Marest looked any more at ease. No wonder. With one chair still empty, Messela’s vote tipped the balance, four to three. The Grand Council wasn’t the only place the Crowmarket concealed influence. The older the family, the more secrets to protect.
“This council is no place for proxy votes,” said Lady Tarev. “And certainly not for those cast on behalf of disgraced kin.”
Lord Lamirov nodded agreement.
With a scrape of chair against flagstones, Malachi rose.
“Messela has made her decision,” he said mildly. “I for one am very glad that she has at last found her voice, and look forward to hearing more of it. Which makes my decision all the harder. I’m afraid, Izack, that I don’t concur with your reading of the situation. While Lord Krain’s missives certainly hold encouragement, lasting peace with the Hadari remains a long way off. I’d rather we didn’t find ourselves fighting the Hadari and the Crowmarket at the same time.”
Josiri gaped. Messela aside, the vote had brought no surprises, but this? Unwelcome thoughts surfaced. Malachi had treated with the Crowmarket in order to bring down Ebigail Kiradin. Did he remain under their shadow? “You’re annulling the vote?”
“Consider it more a stay of execution,” Malachi replied. “Until such time as we can be certain of Emperor Kai’s intentions. You’re free to involve yourselves in Captain Darrow’s efforts, under my personal authority. I trust that will temper your disappointment, Josiri? Izack?”
Josiri nodded, ashamed at his rushed conclusions, born of frustration though they’d been. Politics. It was always politics. He only wished it something more tangible.
“I daresay it will.” Izack leaned back, a man well-content with his prospects. “And even if it doesn’t, I’ve learned plenty today.”
“Concerning what, pray?” said Lord Lamirov.
“Concerning who among us is pissing their pants at the prospect of upsetting the Crowmarket. Always nice to know where everyone stands. Even if it’s in a puddle.”
“How dare you!” Lord Lamirov reached his feet with a speed Josiri hadn’t suspected he possessed, finger jabbing across the table. “I’ll not be spoken to like that by some… some…”
Malachi cleared his throat. “I think we might call the session concluded. I had entertained hopes of seeing my family before this evening’s ball, and I think we’d all welcome a chance for tempers to cool and tongues to regain a measure of courtesy.”
Lord Lamirov tore his eyes from Izack. “And the vote concerning Lord Trelan’s conduct?”
“This council can hardly censure him for taking the self-same actions I’ve just authorised, can it? We’d look ridiculous.”
Lord Lamirov cast about the table for support. Finding none, he lapsed into silence.
Malachi offered a wintery smile. “I’m glad that’s settled. Please, remember that each of you is on this council for a purpose. After tomorrow’s vote, the ninth seat will be filled. Let’s try to set a good example for the newcomer.” Ice thawed from voice and expression. “That will be all. Josiri? Stay a moment, if you would.”
Josiri sat in silence as his peers filed out.
Malachi exchanged a few hushed words with Messela, then set the double doors closed at his back. The posture of First Councillor gave way to the altogether humbler man who’d once welcomed a travel-stained and adrift southwealder into his home.
“Can I offer you a drink?” he said. “Whatever her other sins, Ebigail maintained a stash of excel
lent brandy. I found it just last week, and there’s still a little left.”
Josiri snorted. “Knowing Lady Kiradin, it’s probably poisoned.”
“If so, it’s a very slow poison, for it’s not killed me yet.” Malachi shrugged. “Her claw marks are on the decanter, but that’s about as far as it goes.”
He crossed to the north wall, dominated by the great golden map. The Ancient and Honourable Bounds of the Kingdom of Tressia. Other realms had long since claimed much of that land. The Hadari Empire to the east. The quarrelsome Thrakkian thanedoms to the south. Enclaves of other, stranger folk about whom Josiri knew little save rumour. And yet the map remained, an echo of the distant past, and perhaps aspiration for the future. On the one hand, reassuring; on the other, depressing.
Malachi prised open a section of wooden panelling beneath the map and produced a crystal decanter and two glasses. He set the glasses down on the table and poured.
“What shall we drink to?”
Josiri took his glass and glanced up at the map. “The Republic?”
Malachi smiled. “What a long way you’ve come. I think I hear your mother wailing her horror from Otherworld’s mists. There are so many old voices in this room. And too many mistakes besides.” He shook his head, the maudlin tone retreating, and offered up his own glass. “No. I thought to absent friends, may they never be forgotten.”
“To absent friends.”
So many of those, slipped away beyond the mists. Among them a sister, who’d proved herself twice the leader he was. Josiri wondered what Calenne would say of him now. Likely she’d have laughed. He could have borne that, if it meant seeing her again. But Calenne was gone, lost to the same fires that had consumed their ancestral home.
Crystal chimed, and Josiri took a sip. Sweet, smooth and with a hint of vanilla to betray liquor lain long in the very finest of barrels.
“Are we still friends?” he asked. “I see so little of you outside of council…”
“You sound like Lily.”
“Your wife has a sweeter voice.”
“But I doubt she’d top Izack’s little performance,” said Malachi. “You owe him a favour.”
“The man’s a whirlwind.”
“He is. And you need to be careful. This won’t be the last time someone tries to dislodge you. I can’t protect you for ever.”
The brandy lost its taste. A rebuke was still a rebuke, even delivered in private. To have it delivered by a friend made it all the worse, for it hinted at disappointment, rather than anger.
“You’re like Erashel, then? You think I should have sought permission?” Bitterness crept into Josiri’s tone. “You saw how quickly they backed away from conflict with the Crowmarket. If I’d sought the Council’s blessing, they’d have refused, and then—”
“And then you’d have done it anyway, and things would be worse.” Malachi sighed. “Better to seek forgiveness for a deed done. You’re more like Viktor than you admit.”
Josiri twisted away to hide a scowl. “You think I did the wrong thing?”
“Hah! Let me turn that back on you. Do you think I resent you for saving lives?”
“Of course not.”
“Then you have your answer. How bad was it?”
Josiri turned back to face him. Crosswind Hall’s cellar danced before his eyes, the memory vivid enough to smell the blood. “Darrow thinks we stumbled onto a maniac’s lair.”
“And you?”
“I don’t know. I just want to find the others while there’s still chance. I wish you’d voted with us.”
Malachi swirled his glass and stared into the dancing liquid. “It’s not as simple as that.”
The old, rutted argument beckoned. “It never is.”
“We’ve been over this. I’m not always as free to act as I wish. A balance must be struck.”
“You mean Lamirov’s vanity must be eased.”
“You see the position of First Councillor as a bludgeon, power to be wielded. But power wanes with use, Josiri. Rely on it and people stop listening to why you cast your weight about, and remember only that you did. I can do nothing to settle the Republic’s inequities if folk think me a tyrant.” He stared pointedly at Lamirov’s chair – the one that had lately belonged to Ebigail Kiradin. “And tyrants do not end well.”
“You don’t have it in you to be her.”
“It’s not you I have to convince. This Republic is built on the shoulders of its oldest families, and those families hoard influence jealously. They see what I’ve done to unmake past mistakes, and they worry at what I might do next. If I too often favour your wishes over traditionalists like Leonast? It won’t end well for anyone.”
Games. It was all games and posturing. “I understand.”
“Good.”
“But that doesn’t mean I like it.”
Malachi emptied his glass and poured himself another. “You have to see things in the long term, Josiri.”
“In the long term, the Raven takes us all.”
“Yes, we’ve opportunity to achieve something before that happens. Fresh blood. A council that represents all its people. I confess, I’d hoped for better from Rika and Evarn, but they’re too shrivelled up inside. Their habits have solidified with age.”
Josiri chuckled. Both were younger than he and Malachi by several years. “And Messela?”
“She shows promise. And for all that you and she don’t get along, Erashel at least follows her principles and not her pride. You were right to recommend her.”
“We needed another southwealder. Better someone like her than another former rebel. A wolf’s-head on the Council? That would have upset the old guard.”
Malachi smiled. “You see? You can think like a politician when you try. Would it be inappropriate to ask which of our two presumptive candidates you’ll be voting for tomorrow?”
“Probably. But I’m only an upstart southwealder. I don’t know any better.” He shrugged, as if the subject were unimportant, though in truth he’d given the matter a great deal of thought. “Konor says all the right things, but there’s something behind his eyes I don’t trust.”
“He is a merchant,” said Malachi. Konor Zarn was a merchant in the same way that Izack was “merely” a soldier. Half the merchantmen plying passage of Endalavane and down into Thrakkia did so under his flag. Two centuries back, his wealth would have elevated his family to the first rank. Nowadays it was regarded as gaudy and envied by bloodlines whose own coffers ran low. “So you prefer the Lady Mezar? I’m surprised.”
“I can set aside the past, when I have to.”
“Sabelle’s father signed the warrant for your father’s execution.”
“So did yours. I’ve not yet tried to kill you for it.”
“Father-in-law, actually. One of the benefits of being a Reveque by marriage is that the sins of the kith don’t stain my hands so deeply.”
Josiri took the correction in his stride. “Lady Mezar has done more than any to make reparations with the Southshires. I’d acknowledge that even if I didn’t like her personally.”
“But you do? Like her, I mean?”
“She’s direct. She doesn’t hide behind tradition and protocol. I doubt I’ll ever be certain what Konor thinks, but I’ve no doubt that Sabelle won’t hesitate to speak her mind.”
“And at some volume. I’d vote for her too, if I could. Alas, a First Councillor must remain dispassionate in these matters. But she’ll pass easily enough without my support.” One hand on the back of his chair, Malachi gestured at each empty seat in turn. “Messela. Erashel. Izack. Sabelle. I doubt they’ll always agree with you, but you have to admit it’s an improvement on how things were when you first arrived.”
Josiri nodded his concession. The average age of the Council was a good twenty years younger, for starters. Lamirov aside, only Izack was older than Josiri himself, and then by but a few years. Even adding Lady Mezar to the roster wouldn’t skew things much closer towards the grave. A far cry from the
grey heads and entrenched attitudes that had seen the Southshires crushed. Still, Malachi had missed a name off the list.
“What about you?”
Malachi dribbled more brandy into his glass. “Cleverness will only get me so far. Sooner or later, I’ll have to throw my weight around and I won’t be forgiven for it. I only accepted this position in the hope of convincing Viktor to take the burden from me, but fate had other plans.”
Josiri thought back to the last time he’d seen Viktor Akadra, unrepentant and alone, with the charred fields of Eskavord at his back. The anger still smouldered, even now. A family broken. A home destroyed. And all of it Viktor’s doing. “It did.”
“Now, I just want to leave things better than I found them, Josiri. I doubt I can do that without your help. So please, be more careful. And remember that I am your friend, even if it’s not always possible for me to play the part.”
Josiri nodded, regretting he’d ever thought otherwise. “Go home, Malachi. See your family before your house fills with strangers chasing patronage.”
“I intend to.” Malachi rounded the table and held out his hand. “But I will see you later, won’t I? And Anastacia too? A few friends among the favour-seekers?”
“She’s looking forward to it,” Josiri lied.
He clasped Malachi’s hand and left the stultifying air of the council chamber behind.
Malachi sat heavily in his chair. Truths and lies were exhausting when told apart. Carefully mingled, they drained a body like nothing else.
“Well?” he asked the empty chamber. “Are you satisfied?”
For a moment, Malachi allowed himself to believe that he was as alone as he seemed. Then the shadows shifted in the far corner, beyond the revelation offered by afternoon sunlight, bringing with them the cold scent of Dregmeet’s mist-woven paths. The scent of Otherworld.
The Emissary approached the table, eyes cold and green beneath the hood of her feathered cloak. Even in sunlight, the edges of her form blurred and shifted, as if she wasn’t truly there.
“My cousins won’t be pleased. You should have stopped him.”