by Matthew Ward
What if Anastacia was right about Sidara? That her gift was too important to conceal? Lily didn’t see it thus, but Lily’s judgement on spiritual matters was shaped not only by faith, but also by the strictures of a church that had been her parent as much as any kith. Like law and justice, religion and faith were infrequent allies more than close kin.
One thing was undeniable: events had proven that secrecy would not keep his daughter safe. Magical or mundane, talent found expression.
Long, midnight hours spent pacing the gardens had gleaned no insight in what to do otherwise, much less how to convince Lily to change tack. And come the day, the business of city and Republic would once again dominate his time, the father’s mantle set aside for the duties of First Councillor.
It might perhaps have seemed necessary – even honourable – but for his utter failure at both.
A flash of temper sent the glass spinning away. It cracked off a nymph statue and vanished forlornly beneath the lily pads.
“Temper, temper, Lord Reveque.”
Malachi bit back a scowl. So the business of the Republic wouldn’t wait even for the day? Or at least the business of the Crowmarket, which was increasingly the same.
“I know why you’ve come,” he said without turning. “Lord Trelan had the temerity to interfere.”
The Emissary plucked the near-empty brandy bottle from the stone table and tipped it towards the wan light.
“You shouldn’t drink so much, Lord Reveque. A man in your position can’t afford false courage.” She set the bottle down and joined him in staring out across the pond. “As for Lord Trelan, he did more than interfere. My kin slain, an elder cousin among them. Our property taken.”
Property. Southwealders. Malachi tamped down rising anger. She was right: false courage would only do him ill. “You think I should care?”
“I think the Parliament of Crows grows tired of your failure to bring him to heel.”
Even through tiredness and burden of liquor, Malachi caught an unfamiliar note. Reluctance? Resentment? Disdain?
“You can’t bring a Trelan to heel, it’s in the blood.”
“Find a way, Malachi. Or they’ll have him killed. If he’s fortunate, he’ll be a groom of the grave. If not, they’ll give him to the mists.”
Buried alive or cast into Otherworld? Not much to choose between those fates. He stared at her, though couldn’t say for certain if it were the threat or the use of his given name that had seized his attention. More than ever, her tone was amiss, though with her features lost in the hood’s shadows, he’d no clue to determine exactly what.
“Can you really afford the attention that will bring?”
“It will matter little to Lord Trelan. Dead is dead. I know how the Parliament works. The order will come.”
Malachi blinked. He’d misread the warning, which came not from the Parliament, but from their Emissary. How many similar warnings had he confused?
“Why do you care?”
She sighed. “I… I don’t know.”
He regarded her in silence, the candour an unexpected chink of light amid the gloom. All these months, he’d allowed himself to think of her as a thing. An obstacle to overcome. Never a person. One mistake among many since his rise to First Councillor. Politics was the art of finding common ground. He’d once considered himself accomplished at it. Had he, this past year, made the mistake of treating the Crowmarket as a single, unified body? What if the Emissary wasn’t his jailer, but merely the woman who minded the key?
“How long have you served the Crowmarket?” he asked softly.
She snorted. “All my life. My mother gave me up to spare her reputation.”
“That must be hard.”
“Perhaps. I’ve seen enough of her since to think it might have been for the best.”
“Still, to put your own prospects before those of your child… Do you ever look at the path you’ve walked and wonder how you’ve strayed so far?”
“My path isn’t your concern.”
She turned abruptly away. In anger? Or out of fear that the shadows might shift, and reveal more of her face – and her thoughts – than she wished? “Forgive me. A rhetorical question, aimed inwards.”
“Did you find an answer?”
“Not yet.”
“Only a man with the luxury of choice would even ask,” she replied bitterly.
The chink of light widened, more of the Emissary’s thoughts on display than ever before. A crack in the expressionless wall that was the Crowmarket. “Then you do have regrets.”
“I breathe. I sleep. I have regrets.” Her voice hardened. “Don’t mistake them for weakness.”
There it was. Beneath the steel, beneath the defiance – the plea to be understood. “Only a man who never experiences doubt would do so. I’m hardly he. It takes courage to grow beyond the past.”
The Emissary gathered herself to the pounce. Green eyes glinted beneath the hood. Malachi stumbled back, hands upraised in what he knew to be a forlorn attempt at defence. His hip jogged the table. The brandy bottle shattered against the pondside flagstones.
The Emissary went still, her eyes darting past Malachi to the gardens beyond. She drew herself upright, hands falling to her sides, and shook her head in disdain – though at him, or at herself, Malachi was far from certain.
“If you’ve any love for Lord Trelan,” she said, “stop him.”
A heartbeat later, she was gone, lost in a pall of crow’s wings and squalling voices that bled through the trees towards Strazyn Abbey.
Malachi let his hands fall and took a deep breath. A first step. His first truly proactive step in his dealings with the Crowmarket. Perhaps there was hope. If he stirred himself to courage. If the Emissary was truly as conflicted as she seemed.
Back through the gardens, he glimpsed the approaching lantern that had startled the Emissary to flight. Three silhouettes, two upright and one stumbling. Had they seen the vranakin? Unlikely, and if need be any one of a dozen lies would conceal the truth. More concerning was why anyone would seek him at such an hour.
Malachi propped himself against the stone table and waited. Though he was no closer to solving the twin problems of Sidara and Josiri, the future seemed less bleak than before, and alive with possibility.
The lantern reached the pondside, giving shape and colour to two hearthguards and a filthy woman in the uniform of the 7th. She swayed and forced herself to a semblance of attention, the salute uncertain and imprecise.
“My lord.” Her hand shook as she held out the sealed envelope. “I bring grim tidings.”
Given the circumstances of their parting, Josiri had assumed that when Malachi had spoken of discussion “tomorrow”, he’d meant in the wake of the Privy Council’s mid-morning meeting, and within the austere neutrality of the council palace. It was therefore a surprise to find himself back at Abbeyfields before dawn was fully in the sky, summoned by herald, and without explanation. Stranger still to be ushered into the darkened house via the servant’s door, coming to one of the smaller sitting rooms via the kitchens.
“If you’ll wait here, my lord?”
The hearthguard withdrew and closed the door behind, leaving Josiri swamped in gloom. Though the drapes were drawn back, purple-grey skies offered little more illumination than the smouldering fire. Or perhaps it only seemed that way. The carriage ride had done little to stir the cobwebs of sleep.
“Josiri?” Erashel turned from her vigil at the window. Dark-ringed eyes spoke to thoughts scarcely less gummed than Josiri’s own. “You look worse than I feel.”
He grunted. “Ana and I were… talking… until quite late.”
Explanation undersold truth. Worn away by the day’s events, he’d made the mistake of pointing out that – however noble their reasons – they’d overstepped their bounds with Sidara. He remembered little detail of what had come after. It had drowned in the red tide of his own flaring temper after Ana refused to admit even the possibility of wrongdoing. Har
sh words had yielded to stormy silence, and thereafter separate rooms. And all the while that gnawing, creeping uncertainty that Ana had been right. But then, she was always right, even when she wasn’t.
“About what we saw at Westernport?”
“Among other things.”
“I know what I saw,” Erashel replied. “I’ve met Anastacia once or twice, of course, but I didn’t know what to make of her. I suppose I never really believed. I imagine it can be quite challenging, you and she.”
The words awoke memories of the burning warehouse. Challenging. Yes, that was a good start. The distance between them had never felt so great, even before the argument.
“It has its moments.”
She took the hint. “And Altiris. Is he…?”
“Alive. And better rested than us, I suspect. He’ll live.”
A frown touched her brow. “He should be dead. How did you manage it?”
The inevitable question. One for which he’d meant to have a credible answer. Events had crowded out such practicalities. But the truth? That remained beyond the pale if he ever again wanted Malachi to speak to him in friendship.
“I can’t tell you. Consider it a miracle.”
The frown blurred into suspicion. “Anastacia. It’s something to do with her.”
“After a fashion.” Josiri chided his sleep-deprived tongue for saying even that much. Erashel was too canny to pass up even oblique hints. She and Ana were so alike, strong without and vulnerable within; compassion tempered by fierce intelligence. Admirable and infuriating. “Please, let it rest.”
To his relief, she nodded. “Keep your secrets. I owe you that much for yesterday.”
This, at least, was safer ground. “You owe me nothing.”
She shook her head. “They’re my people too. But for you a good many – perhaps all – would be dead.” Her voice stirred with passion. “I was wrong to fight you. We’re stronger together than apart. For the good of our people, we have to be.”
Josiri waved towards the door. “And does that include when Malachi delivers the lecture he’s spent the small hours preparing?”
To his surprise, Erashel nodded. “Let him believe I persuaded you to take action. That you were only in Dregmeet at all to recover the situation.”
“It isn’t true.”
“At this moment, I suspect I’m better placed to survive Malachi’s disfavour than you. Consider it my penance for the trouble I’ve given you. Besides, when he learns what the vranakin were doing. About the etravia…” She shuddered. “… that thing.”
“I tried to tell him. He wouldn’t listen.”
Suspicion returned. “You’ve already spoken?”
Josiri stifled a wince that would only have made matters worse. “Last night, I—”
The door opened. Not Malachi, but Izack, clad in the full armour and raiment of his rank.
“Well, aren’t you a glamorous pair this fine morning?” He grinned, seemingly no worse for the early hour. “Hushed summons before breakfast, hurried in through the back door like a Sartorov. Now I find myself in the company of my favourite troublemaker, and another who I’ve long suspected of being rousable to mischief. An interesting day beckons.”
“They’re all interesting,” said Erashel. “One way or another.”
Josiri realigned his assumptions. Izack’s presence changed everything. If this wasn’t to be a reprimand for the foray into Dregmeet, then what?
“You’ve no notion what this is about?” he asked.
“Not a one.” Izack shrugged. “But that’s the soldier’s life. Go here. Go there. Plant a flag. Raise a few walls. Oh, and there’s always shouting. And thumping. Maybe I’m here to thump some sense into you? Heard about the mess in Dregmeet, of course. Sorry I missed it.”
“Then let me tell you the rest,” said Josiri.
Izack crooked an elbow against the mantelpiece and listened intently as Josiri laid out all, save his previous visit to Abbeyfields. The mention of ghosts drove the smile from Izack’s lips. The grey-robed creature who had matched Ana strength for strength banished all other expression. By the time the tale turned to Elzar’s intervention on Drag Hill, his face was uncharacteristically immobile.
“I see what’s going on.” He wagged a finger at Josiri, then at Erashel. “You’re having a laugh with me. Punishment, for not enduring Zarn’s pomposity. It’s not very bloody funny.”
“It’s true, every word,” said Erashel.
Thunder gathered in Izack’s expression, massaged away by the passage of a meaty hand. “Somehow I knew you’d say that. What’s the world coming to? I knew the vranakin had their talons in a lot of mucky business. I thought most of it tittle-tattle.”
“Maybe that’s how it stays secret,” she replied.
“No, I don’t reckon so,” said Izack. “Vranakin like to make examples. If they’d that kind of power, we’d have heard long ago. They’d be running half the Republic.”
“Things are stirring,” murmured Josiri. “Things that should be left sleeping.”
Erashel joined Izack in giving him a leery look.
“I beg your pardon?” she said.
“Something Ana said.”
Izack grunted. “I’d like to have a chat with your good lady. Then I think I’d like to take a walk into Dregmeet, but with a few more bodies than you had yesterday. A few thousand more.”
“I don’t know that Malachi will approve.”
Izack grinned. “I’m not asking permission. I swore an oath to Essamere that I’d defend this rotten little Republic. That’s the glory of being a knight. Higher duty, and all that.” He turned at the creak of the door. “Oh, hello. Thought you might be his lordship.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint.” Hawkin matched how Josiri felt far better than Izack appeared. A pang of guilt soured his spirits further. “Lord Reveque is ready. If you’ll please follow me? But quietly. Much of the household is still asleep.”
She led them up two flights of stairs and away towards the back of the house. A soft knock on the oaken study door, and it opened inwards to reveal a Malachi whose expression was so calm, so collected, it rang patently false. Izack filed inside, then Erashel. Josiri lingered in the passageway and drew Hawkin aside by her elbow.
“About before,” he said. “I should never have put you in that position.”
“It’s done with.” Eyes that never failed to sparkle regarded him dully. “You did what you had to. But never again, please.”
Josiri followed the others. “Never” was the hardest promise to make. Hawkin remained in the corridor and pulled the door closed.
Josiri had been a frequent guest to that study in happier times. A glass or two shared at the end of a long day, in friendship or else to grease the wheels of governance. Save for the broad window that overlooked the grounds, every inch of wall boasted meticulously ordered bookshelves, furled maps and sketchbooks – a collection built up over long decades by Malachi’s forebears. The study felt elevated by history where the council chamber was confined by it – knowledge wielded not as weapon or leverage, but for its own sake. It also felt uncommonly cramped when playing host to four.
Malachi retreated behind a desk that offered further clue that something was amiss. Ever a man of careful habit and fastidious penmanship, he seldom left so much as a single leaf of paper out of place. Now, documents, maps and half-written letters hid the polished wood from sight. Many were covered in thick, greasy ink-scrawl, or dark spatters that spoke to inattention.
Izack cleared his throat. “Not good manners to call an early morning tryst and leave us all hanging around. Is this about the vranakin? Because what I’ve been hearing—”
Malachi tapped the heel of his paper knife on the desk and looked up. “Ahrad has fallen.”
Josiri suppressed a shiver that defied the crackling hearth. Erashel’s lips thinned to a slash.
Izack cocked his head. “Say that again.”
“The Hadari attacked this morning,” sa
id Malachi. “Castellan Noktza is dead. So are half the garrison. The Ravonn is lost, and if the Eastshires aren’t overrun, they soon will be.”
“Impossible,” Izack snapped. “I was at Ahrad last month. I walked the walls. The shadowthorns could pound them for weeks and have nothing to show for it.”
Josiri forgave his disbelief, for a part of him shared it. Ahrad, the Eskagard. The indomitable fortress. Either Malachi was deceived, or…
“Are you certain?” Erashel glanced at each man in turn before her gaze settled on Malachi. “This isn’t something we want to be wrong about.”
Malachi laughed without humour. “A squire of the 7th arrived less than an hour ago. She’s been riding since dawn, changing horses at relay posts along the Silverway. She brought this letter. Lady Sarravin’s seal. Her codes.”
He fished a filthy scrap of paper from the corner of the desk. Izack snatched it away. He read in silence, lips twitching, then nodded grimly and offered it around.
Josiri shook his head. Each regimental commander had their own form of words to prevent false warnings being passed, but he’d quickly learned he was incapable of memorising them. Besides, if Malachi and Izack believed…
“So Ahrad’s gone,” he said.
“Who else knows?”
“Officially? We four, and perhaps half a dozen others. Unofficially? I expect half the city to know by noon. I’ll issue an official proclamation as soon as Captain Darrow has the constabulary mobilised to contain any panic.”
“I still don’t understand how they breached the walls,” said Erashel.
Izack scowled. “Sarravin’s letter talks of a demon. Magic.”
“Both of them terms bandied about to shape something we cannot explain,” said Josiri.
“Things are stirring,” muttered Erashel. “Things that should be left sleeping.”
Malachi scowled. “What was that?”
Josiri shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to speak of what he’d seen in Dregmeet. “What brought us to this point matters less than what we do next. Why us, Malachi? Why not the full council?”