City of Strife

by Claudie Arseneault

  Kellian’s lips became a thin line as he struggled with the order. “Milord, we’re just about to catch the thief who—”

  “I don’t care about one robber, Kellian,” Diel said. “You tell me he’s been stealing for years, and yet we never really missed anything he took. Let him be. You’ll have more pressing concerns.”

  That gave Kellian pause. His brown eyes settled on Lord Dathirii, then narrowed. As captain of their guard, he was well-acquainted with how Diel’s idealist impulses could stir trouble.

  “Pressing concerns?” he repeated without hiding his accusatory undertone. “Can’t it be delayed long enough for my partner and me to catch this thief?”

  Diel exchanged a quick glance with Jaeger. Kellian had been spending a lot of time with Detective Sora Sharpe over the last month, and they both agreed his interest in her had outgrown professional matters. Not that it moved very fast. They had worked together for a year now, and neither had pushed for the relationship to develop. Either Diel and Jaeger were mistaken, or Kellian preferred to take extra care with his heart—understandable, considering how long he’d needed to recover from his first wife’s death. Whichever it was, however, it would have to be postponed.

  “I’m afraid it cannot wait,” Diel said. “He won’t, after the threats I made.”

  “Who, Diel?”

  “Master Avenazar.”

  “You—” Kellian stopped, clacked his tongue, shook his head. “Of course you did.”

  “Of course.” Diel’s tone had no trace of guilt or shame. He never apologized for standing up to wrong-doings, even if it put the whole family in danger. “He was torturing his apprentice.”

  Jaeger imagined the scene without a problem. He had seen this same scenario happen time and again. Diel spotted an injustice, flushed red, then called the perpetrator out. It didn’t matter if he was jumping into the middle of dangerous business, unguarded and unprepared. He always interrupted. His name often sufficed as a shield, but he had been wounded in the past. Jaeger wouldn’t change that for all the gold in the world. Judging from Kellian’s annoyed frown, however, he might. The guard clacked his tongue again.

  “Has anyone ever told you, Lord Dathirii, that you are this family’s greatest peril?”

  Diel’s laughter once more filled the room. He put a hand over his heart in mock hurt, then met Kellian’s gaze with a confident smile. A strange light burned in Diel’s eyes, like a man about to jump down a high bridge, certain he would survive the fall. Despite his chirpy disposition, Lord Dathirii knew what he had just unleashed.

  “Greatest peril? You do me a disservice, Kellian.” He leaned forward a little, grinning. “I’m its greatest challenge.”

  Jaeger couldn’t tear his gaze away. Diel’s wild confidence when he threw himself at a trial entranced him. This was the man he loved. The one who laughed as he put his entire life on the line to defend others, the daring noble who relentlessly pushed back against horrible acts and damaging systems. Kellian grunted, but Jaeger noticed a hint of a smile on his square features. Diel must have seen it, too. He spread his arms with a chuckle, then settled his hands on his hips. He breathed out slowly, as if exhaling his desire to joke.

  “I have no fear that everyone will be up to the task. Kellian, please brief your men on the new circumstances. We’ll build a list of potential targets to defend as soon as possible. Jaeger, we’ll need everything we know about the Myrian Enclave. Activities, members, allies—everything. See Garith about it. At this hour he shouldn’t be with a lady yet. I’ll contact the other families likely to lend us a hand. The Myrians might have an empire behind them, but if Isandor stands together, nothing can stop us.”

  Lord Diel Dathirii inhaled, eyes closed and gathering his focus, then his gaze went from Kellian to Jaeger. Under the determination Jaeger loved hid a hint of fear. The steward doubted anyone else could see it, but it was there, in his expression and in the slight tension of his shoulders. Master Avenazar’s reputation described a violent and unpredictable man. Rumours said the wizard had brought down an entire block of houses in Myria before being sent here. Isandor’s trade wars most often resolved themselves through deals and bribes, but this one might turn into a bloody exception. Yet the more dangerous Avenazar was, the more necessary throwing him out became. Diel lifted his chin, perhaps following a similar train of thought.

  “Gentlemen,” Diel Dathirii said, “it’s time to clean our city.”

  ✵

  Jaeger knocked on Lord Garith Dathirii’s door with more than a little apprehension. Despite Diel’s belief that he wouldn’t have company at this hour of the day, Jaeger expected the young lord to answer half-clothed, his golden hair tumbling down his shoulders and back. Many instances of Garith opening in a hurry were followed by a woman’s voice asking, “Is it important?” or worse, “Should I dress?” It seemed to the steward that he was always interrupting one bout of lustful pleasure or another. There was no avoiding it, however, because Garith refused to keep a regular schedule. Sometimes he worked in the middle of the night, sometimes early afternoon. Yet at the end of the day, House Dathirii’s accounts were always up to date.

  Long minutes passed as Jaeger waited at the door. He pressed his lips together, his dread increasing with every additional second. The more time Garith took to answer, the more likely it became that the young elf was putting clothes back on. As the handle turned, the steward offered one last prayer to the gods.

  When Jaeger’s gaze fell upon the lord’s clean, wine-coloured outfit, sporting more buttons than he could’ve reasonably fastened since he’d knocked, he heaved a sigh of relief. Garith wore his round optics and had tied his hair into a half ponytail, both signs he had been working. Excellent. With his current attire, Jaeger was once more struck by the resemblance between Garith and Diel. They shared a similar build along with the wide green eyes, the luscious hair, and the pointed chin. Garith’s face was rounder, however, his nose smaller. And as charming as the ladies found the young lord’s half-smile, Jaeger preferred Diel’s honest grin and how it drew out the little crow’s feet at his eyes. He was, however, horribly biased when it came to Diel Dathirii.

  “I’m sorry,” Garith said. “I was finishing a calculation. You need anything?”

  “Indeed. Did you have company?”

  Jaeger preferred to ask, on the off-chance Garith had cracked the finance books while a naked lady slept in the bed behind him. He would still let him in, if that was the case. It had happened once, and Jaeger didn’t intend to ever repeat the experience. Garith laughed and pulled the door wide open.

  “No woman with me, I’m afraid. I’m all yours.” He sighed as Jaeger entered, faking heart-broken desperation. “You’re lucky, too, because I was supposed to dine with Sora—you know, Kellian’s charming partner? She had questions for me but cancelled. So here I am, buried under endless strings of numbers instead of enjoying a glass of wine with an amazing and witty lady. What a waste.”

  “Her time is better spent now.”

  “You wound me, Jaeger!”

  The steward’s eyebrows arched. If it took so little …

  “Your time will also be better spent,” Jaeger answered. “We have work.”

  “You always prioritize duty over dinner.” Garith moved back to his desk, removed his glasses, and set them down. Although Garith’s quarters were a mess—clothes strewn across a luxurious rug, half-read books scattered on every surface, even an empty bottle of wine—he kept his workplace neat and organized. “What can I do for you?”

  “You hold a detailed account of trade deals in this city, classified by which noble families are involved, don’t you?”

  “Well, detailed …” Garith made a dismissive sign with his hand. “Branwen puts a lot of time and energy into following the flow of coins, but such information is guarded.” He strode to a bookshelf, stretched to reach a fair-sized crate, and pulled it down. “Who are our lucky fellows?”

  “The Myrian Enclave.”

  Gar
ith paled and raised his gaze from the dozens of rolled-up scrolls inside the crate. For all his flights of fancy and wild nights, the Dathirii bookkeeper did have a drop of common sense. After his initial shock passed, his smile returned. Nothing dampened his mood for long. He plunged his hand into the scrolls and lined the ones tied by a black ribbon on the table. One colour per noble House, all with their corresponding symbols for Jaeger’s benefit. A code easy to remember, and easy to share. Jaeger had developed the habit of marking his notes in a similar fashion. As the number of scrolls on the desk grew, the steward’s eyes widened.

  “How much information do we have on them?”

  “Lots.” Garith put the crate down, returned to his library, and scanned it. He retrieved a leather-bound notebook, half an inch thick, and set it next to the scrolls. “Diel fumed when the Table voted that Myrian laws would govern the Myrian Enclave instead of ours. Branwen and I knew he’d try to run them out of Isandor one day. It’s not a surprise to anyone, is it? So we prepared.”

  Jaeger cracked the notebook open, then flipped through the pages to get an overview of the information within. Names, positions, rumours about the enclave’s members, their contacts and relationships in town—everything they could unearth, waiting for this occasion. Branwen’s work, while the scrolls would be Garith’s tally of their trades. He unrolled one to confirm and smiled at the numbers lined in a perfect column. The amount of information varied depending on the trade deal, but they had decent estimates of their values, as well as when they’d been agreed upon. In Isandor, a profitable trade meant a solid alliance, and the precision behind Garith’s work might save them all.

  “I’m impressed.”

  Garith laughed as he stored the crate once more. “Now those are words I don’t often hear from you. Glad to be of help. Come back if there’s anything you don’t understand.”

  Jaeger gathered the precious information in his arms. He wanted to start reading right away. It would mean hour upon hour of deciphering the web of trade deals, half-secret agreements, and allies and enemies, but he liked to sift through the information and reorganize it for Diel. It would help him get a good grip of the situation, and decide how to approach the Myrians.

  It might take them until dawn, but the idea only made Jaeger smile. He knew how such nights went: they would sit on the floor like teenagers, Diel leaning on him while Jaeger placed the scrolls in organized piles. Diel wouldn’t stop talking, sometimes bending forward slightly to retie his golden hair. He’d ask a question to Jaeger, and while the steward went diving through the information for an answer, Diel would outline the beginning of a plan. Hours would fly by as they refined the idea. Jaeger’s great organizational skills provided Diel’s keen political instincts with a more concrete form, and by dawn, the elven lord knew which orders to give but was too exhausted to enact the plan. He often fell asleep with his head in Jaeger’s lap long before the steward finished his notes.

  Jaeger loved his work, and he loved Diel even more. A night with both was his idea of perfection.

  “Thank you, Lord Garith,” he said. “I advise you remain available tomorrow afternoon. Lord Dathirii will want to discuss these with you.”

  “Don’t worry, my friend, I’ll be right here until he needs me.” He tapped the desk and wished Jaeger a good day. “Close the door, will you?”

  Jaeger nodded his agreement. As he left, arms full of scrolls, the bookkeeper put his glasses back on and dipped his quill in dark ink. Garith might not pull an all-nighter, but with the dangerous task of taking down the Myrian Enclave, he could kiss a lot of his free time goodbye. Jaeger shut the door with his heel, leaving the young lord to his duties, then hurried to his own.

  Every evening, High Priest Varden Daramond tended to Keroth’s sacred fire. The brazier never died, but it always lost strength during the day. Varden arrived with three dry logs, then crossed the temple’s ceremonial hall. It was small, one of the handful of buildings in the Myrian Enclave, but Varden preferred it to the grand temples in Myria. The hall had a rectangular shape, with a circular end instead of a flat wall. Ramps curved up around the end of the hall, embracing the brazier’s stone platform like two large arms. At the top of the ramps were two corridors, one leading to the acolytes’ quarters, the other to Varden’s. Long windows allowed sunlight inside the hall, and two rows of columns traced a path to the entrance. Their tops arched toward the end, carved to resemble flames licking the vaulted ceiling. Varden wished they had fireflowers to decorate them, but the bright red flowers would never survive Isandor’s winters. To Varden’s artistic eye, the temple lacked a touch of life without them.

  He promised himself he would find a substitute as he climbed the stairs to the fire’s dais. Even diminished, it burned well over five feet high. Varden focused on the warmth against his skin and the energy within. After a deep breath, he stepped into the flames. The logs in his arms gave a familiar crack as fire enveloped them, blackening the wood but leaving the priest unharmed. Other temples delegated the brazier duty to new acolytes, but Varden loved the sensation of warm currents dancing in his brown curls. The design of his High Priest outfit allowed air to flow through, snapping it about as Varden sat down, smiling, and placed the three logs around him. The fire bath eased his spirits, and he began the Night Watch Prayer. He asked Keroth to grant him Their brilliant flame to push back the night and permit him to witness the world’s beauty, in both light and shadows. Varden’s fingers curled around a piece of charcoal as he prayed. His urge to draw something grew with every passing second.

  Master Avenazar’s snide voice broke through his concentration, speaking directly into his mind. Blondie needs your help.

  Varden’s eyes snapped open and his heart sank. He managed to finish the prayer, but the message had wiped out his serenity. When had peacefulness ever lasted in the Myrian Enclave? This particular sentence pained him more than others, however. Its meaning never changed. ‘Blondie’ was Nevian, and ‘needs your help’ meant Avenazar had tortured him again. The wizard always refused to tell him where to find Nevian, though, leaving Varden to search for him. Once, before he’d understood the kind of man he dealt with, Varden had asked where to look for the apprentice. Avenazar’s cackle and noncommittal shrug were the only answers he’d received.

  Varden emerged from the brazier, wisps of smoke trailing behind him, then hurried out of Keroth’s temple.

  He stopped at Nevian’s tiny bedroom first and pushed against the piles of books blocking the door from opening, cringing when one collapsed to the ground. Nevian was always sneaking tomes out of the library, using the countless books to conceal a number of Avenazar’s magic manuals. Varden doubted anyone other than him had noticed. Most knew better than to get involved in Avenazar’s business, and the way the Myrian wizard treated his apprentice—as property, mostly—made it clear he was also off-limits. No one would inspect his room, but Nevian still risked a lot. Not his worst decision in that regard, Varden knew. Another secret he intended to keep.

  When Varden didn’t find Nevian with these books, he moved to the library and searched it one alley at a time. Every passing minute worsened the tightness in his chest. One day, Varden wouldn’t reach the poor teenager in time, and Avenazar’s cruelty would leave a permanent mark on Nevian. Well … a more permanent one. Varden didn’t doubt it had already left scars in the young man’s mind. How could it not, after two years of such treatment? The High Priest checked the courtyard—nothing. He stifled his disgust of the dank underground corridor lined with prison cells and peered inside them but found no trace of him there either. Panic settled into his gut, nauseating him. His mind sped through other possible locations as he half-ran down the hallways.

  A hawk flew through an open window, forcing Varden to skid to a stop. Its talons straightened into legs while brown feathers transformed into pale skin and a prune-coloured dress. The wings stretched into delicate arms and hands. The head shifted last, its beak flattening into Isra’s small nose while the eyes r
ecovered their blue hue. Isra stood still an instant, shaking the transformation’s daze away. Varden called to her.

  “Miss Isra!”

  She shot him a haughty glare and Varden ground his teeth, steeling himself. Isra hated all Isbari. The moment she had noticed his tanned skin and thick hair, she’d treated him as an inferior. His people were slaves in Myria, and Isra clearly wished he was, too.

  “I’m looking for Nevian,” Varden said.

  “I am not your personal information centre, Isbari. Find him yourself.”

  As Isra lifted her chin, Varden’s fists clenched at his side. On another day, he would have let it slide. Some fights weren’t worth his limited energy, and he disliked pulling rank on anyone, let alone a prideful Myrian who might seek revenge later. But Nevian didn’t have time for her little power plays, and in theory he followed Avenazar and Jilssan in their hierarchy. Varden grabbed her forearm and yanked her close, his grip tight around her tiny wrist.

  “I am your superior by rank, and this kid might be dying. If you have any clue, tell me now.”

  Anger flashed through her expression, and she wrenched out of his grasp with a huff. For a moment, Varden glimpsed fear too, but she pinched her lips and straightened into a dignified position.

  “He was tasked with cleaning the storage room floor.”

  Varden spun on his heels, walking out on Isra without a thank you. He lengthened his strides, forcing himself not to run despite his urge to get there as fast as possible. Please, Keroth, he thought. Let him be there.

  ✵

  Varden found the young apprentice curled on the floor, unconscious. Blood trickled from his nose, forming a minuscule pool on the otherwise clean wooden floor, but he sported no other visible injuries. He rarely did. Avenazar favoured mental pain over anything physical, although on occasion, he’d combine both and leave the kid in a horrible state. The priest’s insides twisted as he approached the prone form and rolled him onto his back. Even out cold, Nevian clutched a tiny brush, as though holding onto it could save him. Pain warped his features, and his short blond hair stuck to his forehead. Varden sighed and tried not to imagine what he’d endured in the last hours.