“Do you think the Mayor’s guards will ever get rid of the monsters?” Kell asked. “And if they don’t want to, why don’t they just let the hunters do it? Surely that couldn’t be a bad thing?”
Rigan raised an eyebrow. “Do you really suppose the Lord Mayor and the Guild Masters want tradesmen organizing into armed fighting groups? Once we finished off the monsters, we might come looking for them.”
“What about the Balance? Do you think that’s real?”
Rigan snorted. “People don’t have any idea what they’re talking about. Do I think bad things have to happen to cancel out good things, to make the gods happy? Sounds stupid to me.” He shook his head. “I think it’s either something people made up to explain why bad things happen out of nowhere, or they’ve got it wrong. But no one’s likely to explain it to the likes of us, so I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“There was a prophet in the street saying that the monsters come because the gods are angry with us,” Kell said quietly.
“He’s full of shit. The gods had no reason to be angry with Mama. Or with Wil. Or Jora. He’d better not say that kind of trash where Corran can hear, or he’ll end up with a fat lip.”
“Do you think witches are real?” Kell blurted. “I mean, people who work magic outside what the Guilds allow.”
Rigan frowned. “Where did that come from?”
“Widgem said there’s been a fever, down by the harbor. Some people died. Said they’re blaming it witches. There’ve been arrests—”
“Bad stuff happens when people start talking about witches,” Rigan said, and something in his voice sent a chill down Kell’s back. His brother slugged back the last of his whiskey and turned away from the window. “It’s been a long day. I’m going to get some sleep. Don’t bother waiting up for Corran. He’ll come back in his own time.”
Kell watched him go. He stayed where he was, looking out at the harbor, sipping the whiskey and enjoying the fuzzy-headed calm it brought. He looked at the dark sea with the shimmering moonlight path stretching out to the horizon. I didn’t want to say so to Rigan, but if I could do anything, I’d be on one of those ships. I’d take Polly with me, leave Ravenwood and its monsters, and never come back.
Chapter Eight
“TELL US ABOUT the hunters.” Lord Mayor Ellor Machison stood over the prisoner and flexed his hands. Two guards stood by the door, making certain the prisoner posed no danger, despite the many coils of rope that bound the man to his chair.
“Don’t you have hired dogs for this kind of thing?” The man looked up at his tormentor through swollen, bloodshot eyes.
Machison planted a solid punch on the prisoner’s jaw. Blood darkened his knuckles. “I’m a fortunate man. I enjoy my work. Hate to delegate when I can do it better myself.”
Blood dripped in a slow, steady trickle from Arcad’s split lip. Machison was just warming up. He had enjoyed sparring during his military service, long ago—or rather, he liked the release of tension that came with handing out a beating. He delivered three more hard punches in quick succession.
One caught Arcad on the cheek and snapped his head to the side, hard enough to make him black out briefly. The second sank into Arcad’s gut, which would have doubled the man over had the ropes not kept him upright. The third blow caught him beneath the jaw, throwing him back hard against the chair, almost toppling it.
A sheen of sweat rose on Machison’s forehead. He felt limber, powerful… alive. That rush of energy was the reason he preferred to interrogate prisoners himself when time allowed, though his guards were certainly capable.
“How many hunters are there?”
“Go to the Dark Ones.”
Machison dug his knuckles deep into the man’s side, making him cry out. “Maybe you should be worried about seeing the Dark Ones yourself. Now, we can do this the hard or easy way. Tell me what I want to know and I’ll give you a quick death.”
“May Darkness take you.”
The toe of Machison’s boot drove into the vulnerable flesh between Arcad’s legs. “Are the Guilds assisting the hunters?”
Arcad sagged. “The Guilds have nothing to do with it,” he muttered thickly.
Machison chuckled. “I knew you could be reasonable. Not that I believe you, but it’s a start.” He looked to one of the guards. “Reward him with a little water.”
The guard heaved a bucket of cold water into Arcad’s face, and the prisoner sputtered for breath. “Tell me about the other hunters,” Machison urged.
“I’ve told you already,” Arcad slurred. “I hunt alone. No one else. Never has been.”
Machison pressed one broad hand against Arcad’s throat, pushing him against the high-backed chair, his thumb against the man’s larynx. “I can have a healer repair the damage so we can start over again,” he whispered next to the prisoner’s ear. “Or just enough to keep you from dying, for as long as we want. As long as it takes to get useful information. As long as we’re enjoying ourselves.” He tightened his grip on Arcad’s throat until the man’s breath came in harsh gasps. “Names.”
“There are no others.”
Machison responded with a barrage of strikes, each more powerful than the last. A wheeling kick snapped the man’s head to the side with enough force to break his neck, sending the chair over backward, and the mayor followed him, his boot connecting with Arcad’s ribs with a cracking of bone. The beating ended with Machison crouched, sweat-covered and blood-spattered, breathing hard, almost giddy with release, finally sated.
“Shall we call for a healer?” The guard asked as Machison wiped the blood from his hands.
“No need. He knew nothing of value.” He glanced down at the body. “Call a servant to run me a hot bath and have one of the girls brought to my room.” He spared a backward look at the dead man. “And then take out the trash.”
TWO CANDLEMARKS LATER, Machison pulled on a clean shirt and drew in a deep, satisfied breath. The hot bath had eased his sore muscles and washed away the worst of the blood, and the woman brought to his bed from the cells below had met his needs. He looked back at her cold body, staring blankly at the ceiling, throat purpled where his hands clenched during climax. Pity I don’t often get more than one use out of them, he thought. But there’s more where she came from.
He looked forward to the prospect of a good dinner, and the decanter of brandy that awaited him in the parlor.
As bells rang eight times in the tower, a knock sounded at the outer doors. “Enter,” Machison called.
Hant Jorgeson entered the room, closing the door behind him. No one who saw him would mistake Jorgeson for anything except hired muscle. He was tall and strongly built. A scar cut through his left eyebrow and cheek, and the notch in his left ear suggested fights long past.
“What do you have for me?” Machison asked, leaning back in his chair.
“The ship bearing Ambassador Jothran from Garenoth has arrived,” Jorgeson replied. “You’ll be having a private dinner with Ravenwood’s ambassador Halloran and Merchant Prince Gorog tomorrow night.”
“And the other ambassadors?”
“The rest of the ambassadors from the League will arrive shortly. I think you can be certain they will want to keep an eye on the trade negotiations.”
Survival in the Kingdom of Darkhurst was a never-ending, dangerous game; a constant, merciless winnowing where only the strongest and wiliest survived. Darkhurst’s King Rellan paid little attention to the details of ruling, so long as the taxes were paid on time and revenues rose. Rellan accepted the dubious allegiance of the Crown Princes who oversaw the ten city-states of the Bakaran League, all of which constantly vied for favor and backstabbed for gain.
The hereditary nobility invested in the Companies whose fleets supported the Bakaran League’s trade, and bankrolled the Merchant Princes who controlled the vineyards, forests, mines, and farms. The Guilds of each city-state represented the traders and crafters, and while they did not answer to the Merchant Princes, they were behold
en to them for the raw materials of their work.
Economic necessity bound the Guilds and the Merchant Princes together tighter than any chains: the Princes needed the Guilds’ skilled tradespeople, and the Guilds needed the Merchant Princes’ commodities and their trade ties. Saying the resulting relationship was ‘stormy’ understated the reality by quite a bit.
And in the middle of everything, tasked with keeping the bloody mess running and profitable, were the Lord Mayors of the citystates. Machison and his peers walked a dangerous line that required finesse and ruthlessness, the acumen of a moneylender and the morals of a cutpurse. Crown Prince Aliyev ran Ravencroft for King Rellan. It was to Aliyev that the three Merchant Princes—Gorog, Kadar, and Tamas—ultimately owed their allegiance. Machison owed his position to Crown Prince Aliyev, but Merchant Prince Gorog, currently the most powerful of his peers, had bought and paid for Machison’s loyalty long ago.
The ten city-states of the Bakaran League vied for favor like the spoiled children of a wealthy, capricious father. Treaties and negotiations held the League together, with each of the city-states bound to the others for mutual protection and trade benefits. Negotiating those treaties fell to the Lord Mayors of the city-states and the ambassadors. Old grudges ran deep, wariness and suspicion tinged every interaction, and individual greed warred with mutual self-interest. The negotiations hadn’t started yet, and Machison already felt weary just thinking about the squabbling diplomats.
“We have to make sure that Ravenwood retains its favored status with Garenoth,” Machison said. He took a sip of his drink. “And you can bet the other ambassadors will be armed with plenty of ideas and fat bribes to sway the discussions in their favor.”
“Surely Gorog has taken measures of his own to make certain the talks go in his favor,” Jorgeson replied.
“Assuredly. And just as certainly, Tamas and Kadar will attempt to skew the agreement to benefit themselves. What benefits Ravenwood does not necessarily benefit each of its Merchant Princes equally, and by all accounts, Gorog’s had the best of the deal in the current agreement—for Ravenwood and himself.” Machison let out a long breath. “Gorog expects me to ensure his position remains unchanged.”
“We wouldn’t have these problems if every city-state had equal resources,” Jorgeson said with a sigh.
“A stronger king might have done away with the city-states altogether,” Machison replied. “But we all know that the Crown Princes and the Trading Companies are the real power.”
“Ravenwood has good soil for farming. We don’t have to be quite so dependent on Garenoth for imported food.”
“The only way Ravenwood could grow enough food to feed its people on its own would be if Kadar gave up some of his precious vineyards. And we both know that’s not going to happen.”
“And that’s just the point, isn’t it?” Jorgeson said. “Ravenwood’s got the lumber, and we can’t just plant trees elsewhere and have them grow overnight. Grapes won’t grow as well in Itara and Ostero. Tamas’s farms can’t feed everyone, and even if they could, exporting what he grows is more profitable. Even if we didn’t have city-states, we’d have the same problem with alliances and agreements to get the goods where they’re needed.”
Merchant Prince Tamas owned the farms closest to the city, which produced corn as well as beef, pork, and lamb. Some of that bounty fed the city-state, but much of the grain went to the distilleries and breweries; Ravenwood’s beers and spirits sold well both locally and abroad. Kadar owned Ravenwood’s vineyards and Gorog’s lands produced the lumber used in shipbuilding, carpentry, and barrelmaking. In theory, all the Guilds owed their allegiance to the Crown Prince, but in practice each cozied up to whichever Merchant Prince’s holdings most directly contributed to their own trades. Machison walked a dangerous line, needing to keep all the factions off-balance enough to control without letting the whole thing collapse into infighting.
“Do you think Kadar has the backing to obtain more favorable terms for himself?” Jorgeson asked. “Ravenwood as a whole has done well with the current treaty, even if it did favor Gorog. We’ve had the best of Garenoth’s harvest, and plenty of it. No one’s gone hungry in a long time. I don’t like the idea of losing that.”
Machison sighed. “Better food makes for more productive workers, which means more trade and profit. And a higher ranking in the League means we don’t bear the brunt of the Cull to keep the Balance. Gods know, that demands enough deaths as it is.”
“But Gorog’s worried about Kadar?”
“Gorog believes it’s possible for Kadar to muck things up somehow.” I feel like a bone pulled between two dogs. “The treaty is a ten-year agreement. Whoever benefits most from the final terms will keep the upper hand for a decade. It would make our lives miserable if the terms were to change.”
Machison’s position was secure even if Kadar gained power; he owed his appointment to Crown Prince Aliyev. But Kadar knew Gorog had purchased favors from Machison, and so while ultimately they would have to find a way to work together, Kadar could make negotiations as difficult as possible. Machison had witnessed Kadar’s spitefulness, and did not look forward to being on the receiving end of it. Kadar pushing too ruthlessly to increase his own advantage could damage the talks and hurt Ravenwood’s chances of retaining its favored status with Garenoth. Kadar might not think about long-term consequences, but Machison could not afford to ignore the risk.
“I assume you have a plan,” Jorgeson said, watching Machison closely.
Machison tossed back the rest of his drink. “Of course I do.”
For Ravenwood’s three Merchant Princes, commerce was a neverending pissing contest, a way to vie for position, score points with the Crown Prince and King Rellan, and bring each other down a peg. Any advantage in terms for one Merchant Prince’s commodities and trades meant a disadvantage, a coup, against the others—with retaliation a certainty. Revenge was usually taken by proxy, striking at the men who served the major players, not at the highborns themselves. Machison’s fealty to the Crown Prince protected him from the worst of the proxy strikes, though Kadar rarely missed an opportunity to make a cutting comment or a petty snub.
Machison poured himself another drink. “Enough talk of the Garenoth agreement. What other news?”
“The witch finders have been busy these last few days,” Jorgeson said. “Two hedgewitches taken, though they turned out to be of middling power. A few more wretches disappeared from the Skinton area after their neighbors blamed them for casting the evil eye on fever victims. Not our doing, but it serves to keep the commoners on edge.” He gave a snort of derision. “Probably ended up at the bottom of the harbor.”
Machison chuckled. “I suspect you’re right. What’s being said about witches down in the city?”
Jorgeson shrugged. “A little more than the usual, as we hoped. What with a fever going around, the rabble are nervous. They’d likely hold a feast for the witches if their magic reliably healed the sick or raised the dead, but since it doesn’t, they’re all too happy to blame them for every bit of bad luck—real or imagined.”
“Nicely done.”
Jorgeson inclined his head, accepting the rare praise. “It doesn’t hurt that the monsters are afoot, and the witches don’t seem to be able to do much about them. Since the commoners see no value in the witches, they’re quick to find them responsible.”
“We need to make certain the Cull is large enough to satisfy the Balance. I’ve advised Blackholt to make certain the monsters strike hardest against the Guilds and merchants most beholden to Kadar, and make up the rest from the Wanderers and vagrants along the harbor.”
With the wealth that came from a favorable treaty with Garenoth came other benefits, like more money to pay guards to protect the wealthy areas of the city. And while few knew it, proving profitable to the Crown Prince and the king brought another, darker benefit: a reduction in the Cull required from that region’s residents.
Jorgeson tensed at the mention of
Machison’s blood witch. “I don’t trust Blackholt.”
“Neither do I,” Machison replied with a shrug. “But he is useful. We need him to maintain the Balance.”
“You’re certain that the Balance isn’t just a fairy tale dreamed up by the aristocrats to keep us in line?”
“As certain as I am of anything. On many things I doubt Blackholt’s word, but not when it comes to the Balance. The Crown Prince confirmed it himself.”
Of all the things he wished he didn’t know—and there were a lot, in the League’s sordid politics—the Balance sat at the top of the list.
Three hundred years ago, Darkhurst was embroiled in a bitter civil war over the crown. King Rellan’s ancestor, the warrior-king Strawn Athorp, had emerged victorious, but owed his triumph to the help of a blood-sorcerer, and to an unholy bargain with the dark powers.
The entity with whom the blood sorcerer made his pact demanded tribute in blood and death. Athorp and his descendants consoled themselves with the belief that the payment was preferable to the unrelenting carnage a continued war might have caused, even as successive generations of their blood witches called monsters to the farmlands and city-states to cull the population, honoring the old debt with fear, pain, and death.
Over time, men like Gorog and witches like Blackthorn learned how to turn the Cull to their advantage, use it against rivals. They also discovered that fear of the Lord Mayor’s guards, and the death dealt at their hands, helped to maintain the precious Balance as much as blood shed by monsters. More to the point, they realized the benefits of the enormous power they could draw from blood magic, but were frustrated by the requirement to personally repay the power-debt through their own life energy. The Cull became a way to ‘delegate’ the consequences by reaping the fear, death, and pain of those killed by the monsters.
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