Scourge

by Gail Z. Martin

  “And are we maintaining the Balance?” Jorgeson asked.

  Machison made a vague gesture. “So Blackholt assures me. Our status in the League helps. Pay more in gold with taxes, and less in blood for the Cull. The Crown Prince lets me know if we fall behind, reminds me that the King keeps a close eye on such things. But as often as I’ve asked, I’ve never gotten a suitable answer as to why the Balance seems to require more at some times than others, or how it can go for months at a time without needing monsters, and then needs them to Cull nearly continuously at another time.”

  “Or what, exactly, would happen if the Balance were not maintained?”

  “I’m given to understand the outcome would be… catastrophic.”

  “Perhaps these are things one is better off not knowing, then.”

  Machison glared at him. “I have no conscience left to speak of, and I gave up expectations of a good night’s sleep when I accepted this position. No, knowledge is power, no matter how repugnant the truth is.”

  Those who knew the truth about the Balance were a hand-picked few, sworn to secrecy on peril of dire consequences. It would not do for the Guilds and commoners to know that the same leaders who made such a show of protecting them from the monsters were the very ones who sent the scourge upon them.

  The rabble were none the wiser. Talk of a cosmic ‘balance’ found its way into the temples from priests paid to please their masters, its essence diluted to a vague mystic tit-for-tat, a leveling of the scales of good and evil, life and death. Machison supposed the concept provided a little comfort, letting the bereaved believe that their lives and losses actually counted for something.

  Machison’s expression darkened. “Which brings us to the matter of the godsdamned hunters.”

  “The guards watch for them, arrest them when they’re discovered. Like the one you interrogated. Enough of them disappear, the people won’t think them so heroic.”

  “I want them stopped for good,” Machison replied, pouring himself a measure of whiskey. “They’re interfering with the Cull. Frame them for crimes; make them just a different kind of monster. We need the creatures to keep the rabble frightened. If we don’t make the quota for the Cull, it’ll be worse for us. Aliyev’s not a merciful patron.”

  Jorgeson’s lip curled. “The body count and the disappearances should be enough, even for Aliyev. And you can report that the Guilds have surrendered their hostages for the duration of the trade negotiations.” He raised an eyebrow. “They were surprisingly agreeable.”

  Machison let out a harrumph. “Of course they were. They know it keeps their rival Guilds from trying to undermine the process.”

  “We have them safely under guard in the Tariff House, where they’ll be kept in accordance with their rank—so long as the Guild Masters know their place.”

  The Guilds had no direct voice at the bargaining table to renegotiate the trade agreements. The actual negotiation fell to the Lord Mayors and ambassadors of the League members involved. But the Guilds and their members did control the ability of a city-state to meet its trading quotas. Forty years earlier, irate Guild Masters had called for a work stoppage, hoping to force through concessions in the negotiations to benefit individual trades. The resulting chaos had nearly scuttled the trade talks, cost a Lord Mayor his title, and nearly cost the Crown Prince his title. Since then, taking hostages from the Guilds to ensure the continued support of their members had become tradition.

  Machison snorted. “That’s assuming the Guild Masters give a rat’s ass about the hostages they gave you. I’m not holding my breath, not when there’s gold on the line and favors to be won. Probably just sent us their annoying relatives, hoping we’ll get rid of them.”

  “You won’t hear any argument from me on that, m’lord.”

  For a few moments, the two men fell silent as Jorgeson watched the glowing embers in the hearth and Machison nursed his whiskey. “What else?”

  “My men stopped two assassins from entering the palace just this week,” Jorgeson replied. “We think one of the other city-states might have been behind them, trying to scuttle the negotiations. Our suspects are pretty much everyone except Garenoth and Ravenwood.”

  Machison wasn’t egotistical enough to think his own importance in the grand scheme warranted two assassination attempts in one week, or the many before that. No, the strikes were really warnings to his patron, Aliyev, or his favored partner, Gorog. It’s all a damn proxy war, fought so the highborns don’t get blood on their brocade waistcoats.

  The threat of assassination came with the job; proxy strikes were the way business was conducted in the League. Some were meant to kill, others to wound—body or pride—always with the certainty that the strike could have been deadly had that been the assassin’s intent. Machison reminded himself that the perks countered the dangers of his appointment, most of the time. “It would embarrass Aliyev if I were killed in the middle of negotiations.”

  Machison leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. Gods! League politics is exhausting, a game for jaded and wealthy men. Playing people like chess pieces and meddling in affairs of state, as easily as gossips trading dirty secrets over the back alley fence.

  “Any news from your spies in the other League city states?” Jorgeson inquired.

  Machison nodded. “Kasten has fallen into chaos. Solencia is struggling. If Ravenwood succeeds in pressing for favorable terms with Garenoth, we keep second place in the League. So Kasten and Solencia have the most to gain if we lose our spot. They might haggle for better terms for themselves if we fell a few notches. I hear that the Cull’s gone very hard on both Kasten and Solencia—paying in blood what they can’t in gold.”

  “Kadar and Tamas and their Guilds want to tweak the terms in their favor at Gorog’s expense—though we all come out ahead, retaining our place with Garenoth,” Jorgeson sighed. “Greedy bastards.”

  Machison ran a hand over his face. Maneuvering among the competing interests was like dancing on a gallow’s trap door. It was tense and tiring, but he was very good at this game. He already had the gears in motion to make sure Ravenwood came out on top, and that the agreement still favored Gorog where it mattered. If he could throw a bone to Kadar and Tamas, he would.

  Crown Prince Aliyev cared only that the agreement would maintain their League ranking and keep food and gold flowing. The King cared even less—so long as he got his due. Aliyev’s patronage provided advantages—like the powerful blood witch who presided over the dungeons beneath the Lord Mayor’s palace. He paid little if any attention to the minutiae unless something went wrong. Machison intended to cement his plans by keeping the Guilds off-balance so that they did not tangle up the negotiations with petty bickering and pointless work stoppages.

  The hostages were one means of securing cooperation, but so were carefully planted rumors. If the Guilds were busy suspecting one another of trying to get the upper hand, they paid less attention to the maneuverings of Machison and the ambassadors, where the real power lay. Should the Guilds ever put aside their differences and present a united front, they could dictate terms to the Merchant Princes, maybe even to the Crown Prince himself. Machison had every reason to ensure that did not happen.

  “The Vrioni situation is well in hand,” Jorgeson said. “Everything will proceed as you’ve planned.”

  “Good. The Carpenters’ Guild has been causing too many distractions from the negotiations. We’ll set the Guilds back on their heels and take the wind out of Kadar’s sails, all in one move—nicely deflected from us.”

  “No one will trace it back to you. I’ve made certain.”

  “You’d bloody well better have,” Machison snapped. “We can’t afford a mistake.”

  “There won’t be any mistakes,” Jorgeson assured him in a cold voice.

  “See that there aren’t.”

  For just a second, Machison thought he saw annoyance in Jorgeson’s eyes before the security chief’s expression shut down. “You should know, Wanderer
s have been seen near the harbor.”

  Machison cursed under his breath. “Get rid of them. Send them back to where they came from.”

  Jorgeson snorted. “Gladly—as soon as someone figures out where that is.”

  Aptly named, the nomadic clans traveled the countryside, roaming from one city-state to another as each in turn drove them out, only to see them return a few months later. The Guilds railed against the Wanderers as unregulated peddlars, thieves, and whores, but the rest of the residents laid their money down without reservation.

  “In due time. But m’lord, if we play this right, the Wanderers can provide us an advantage in the short term.”

  “Oh?” Machison’s tone made his skepticism unmistakable.

  Jorgeson’s expression was cagy. “Let them stay a while. Long enough for the merchants to start complaining about losing business, and the madams to scream that they’re taking away clients, and everyone else to blame them for missing children, fever, and hens not laying. The Merchants’ Guilds will complain that the Wanderers are engaging in unauthorized trade. We can stoke the fear. Plant the seeds, feed the rumors. Wanderers, witches, and monsters—it’s a perfect storm. The city stays on edge. The Guilds are distracted by a phantom threat. Once we’re done with the negotiations, our men will round the Wanderers up and get rid of the vermin.”

  Machison chuckled. “I knew there was a reason I kept you on payroll,” he replied. He poured a glass of whiskey for Jorgeson, and slid it in his direction, then raised his own glass in a toast.

  “To the future.”

  “WILL IT WORK?” Machison eyed the amulet skeptically. The carved bone and dried sinew lay on his desk, attached to a thin leather strap. It looked like something a child might piece together from scraps rather than a powerful talisman.

  “It’ll work,” the blood witch said curtly. “Should keep the nightmares from actually harming you, maybe even reduce the frequency of the dreams—unless they’re being sent by a very powerful mage.”

  Machison’s skepticism extended to the witch who stood in front of him, a man he knew only by his alias, Kane Valdis. “That’s the best you can do?”

  There was a faint, knowing smile on Valdis’s lips. “I assume there’s a reason you asked for my help, instead of Blackholt?”

  “My reasons are my own. And my need for you—and Blackholt— are not open for discussion.” He paused. “What about the wardings?”

  “I’ll renew them. Salt, aconite, and amanita powder along the windows, doors, and hearth, to ward against evil.” Valdis pulled out a pouch and started working, carefully pouring the mixture around the edges of the room. “I’ll make another circle around your bed, but take care you don’t smudge it, or it’s for naught.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” Machison snapped.

  “No offense intended.”

  Arrogant bastard. If he weren’t so damned good at what he does, I’d entertain him in the dungeon. Maybe see how deep that arrogance goes.

  Valdis walked widdershins around the bed, laying down another line of the salt mix and muttering under his breath. “Tell your servants to mind they don’t disturb the lines,” he added. “Everything I’m doing can be made useless by one overzealous wench with a broom.”

  When he finished the second circle, Valdis moved to the windows. Machison had recently reinforced the locks with heavy iron bolts, but he knew better than to trust in mundane protections which could be bested by a clever thief or skilled witch. He watched Valdis drive nails into the window frame and hang two rough charms, like the one Machison now wore around his neck.

  “I can’t promise this will hold against all witches, or a skilled thief with a powerful relic,” Valdis said. “But it should slow down even the best attackers. You understand that the increased hauntings, more powerful ghosts, dangerous poltergeists—they’re all side-effects from the blood magic? No one’s been able to draw power from blood without riling the spirits. It’s an unfortunate—and unavoidable— consequence.”

  “Then you need to figure out a better way to protect against such things. I would have thought you valued your own safety more highly,” Machison said. “Since it is directly dependent on my continued good health.”

  Valdis’s eyes narrowed. “I find that the people who are most certain about what magic can and cannot do are those who possess none of it themselves.” His voice was even, his tone conversational, yet the rebuff was clear.

  “I expect results,” Machison replied. “I pay for them, I reward them. And I punish failure. It’s a simple system, but it serves me well.”

  The cold glint in Valdis’s gaze suggested that the witch did not fully trust him to keep his word. The feeling is mutual.

  “I was clear about my abilities when you chose to retain me,” Valdis replied with a shrug. “I’ve never represented myself as more than I am—and while I am not quite an equal to Thron Blackholt, I am faithful to the one who pays me.”

  It was a qualified loyalty, subject to terms and conditions, but Machison expected nothing else. That’s more than I get from Blackholt, even if we share the same patron.

  “I remind you to say nothing of these preparations to anyone— especially Blackholt,” Machison warned. Blackholt might have been a gift to Machison from Crown Prince Aliyev, but the Lord Mayor had never really liked or trusted him. Hence Valdis, a blood witch of Machison’s own choosing: a little insurance on the side.

  “You purchased my discretion along with my loyalty,” Valdis answered. “I have no plans to discuss your requirements with anyone, and certainly not Blackholt. I assure you that I trust him no more than you do.”

  Bodyguards and retainers knew the vulnerabilities of their employers; Machison saw no way around that truth. Simply by providing their services, they bore witness to the very weaknesses they covered. So he hired guards to watch his guards, a witch to protect him from his witch.

  Machison held no illusions about the ability to be truly safe. Such a thing did not exist, certainly not within Ravenwood, or in any of the League lands. Yet bets could be hedged, odds might be nudged more in one’s favor, and loopholes closed. Survival in the upper echelons of Ravenwood required constant maneuvering and the instincts of a master gamesman.

  “Before you go,” Machison said as Valdis gathered his materials to leave, “check the protections on my ring. I can’t always have my food taster beside me.” He slipped the bulky ring from his finger and passed it to the witch. The large gold signet carried the crest of the Lord Mayor’s office, and it also served as his seal. Only Jorgeson, Valdis and his guards knew that the ring was enchanted to detect poison. Given the constant storm of attacks and retaliations between principals and proxies, poisonings were just another hazard of doing business.

  “I’ve refreshed the spell,” Valdis replied in a bored tone, handing the ring back. Machison slipped it onto his finger and thought he felt a frisson of energy when it touched his skin. “It will darken in the presence of all known poisons.”

  All known poisons, Machison thought. Always wiggle room for error, but still better than nothing. “What do your portents tell you, of the trade negotiations, and Gorog?” Machison asked as Valdis turned for the door. The witch froze.

  “I’m not a seer, m’lord.”

  “Perhaps not, but I know you have some power of foresight. So answer the question. What do you see?”

  Valdis did not turn. “Turmoil, m’lord. From whence the source, I do not know. The resolution is murky, hidden in smoke and darkness.”

  “Can you see who is standing when resolution comes?”

  “No, m’lord. I see only flames, but what that means, I do not care to guess.”

  “Leave me.” Machison watched Valdis go and bolted the door behind the witch. Alone, he let out a long breath and poured a measure of whiskey into a glass. It burned down his throat as he knocked it back, but did nothing to loosen the knot in his gut.

  Machison refilled his glass and sat in a chair beside the fireplace,
watching the embers.

  In his dreams, he would often find himself running headlong toward an unknown goal. Death was on his heels, though when he looked behind him, he could see nothing but darkness. Yet the certainty of impending, inevitable doom pounded in every heartbeat—in his labored breathing, in the beat of his running footsteps. An old Wanderer woman stepped out the darkness. “It’s coming,” she said with a cruel smile. “The dead never forget, never forgive. Slipping through your grasp, all of it. All for naught.” He pushed past her, running for his life, desperate to find his way back...

  Machison swore under his breath and took another sip of his whiskey, anger rising deep in his gut.

  The nightmares are likely sent by a rival’s witch, meant to undermine my confidence, wear down my resolve, he thought. I have worked too hard for too long to get where I am to be cowed by dreams and portents—especially from the likes of Wanderers. Every decision shapes the future, so surely its course is not fully set. I can alter it—I will forge it to my advantage and anyone who gets in my way will suffer for it.

  * * *

  THE LORD MAYOR’S palace glittered atop the Vista hills within the city walls of Ravenwood. Only the palaces of the Merchant Princes and Crown Prince Aliyev were more opulent. Within the banquet halls, reception rooms and salons, power-brokers transacted the business of Ravenwood, negotiating treaties, maneuvering for advantage in trade agreements, wheedling favors, and delivering veiled threats.

  Deep below the palace, the dungeons concealed a world of darkness and pain. Prisoners vanished. Condemned men and women gave up their secrets to the torturer’s craft, and blood witches worked the spells that summoned monsters to the neighborhoods of Ravenwood in sufficient quantities to sate the Balance.

  Political prisoners filled the cells, along with men and women taken as a surety to prominent merchants and the most profitable ship’s captains, all in the name of Ravenwood’s fortunes. Common criminals awaited the noose in cramped, barred rooms. Unfortunate wretches were crowded into cages, useful only for their blood, which provided the energy for the cadre of witches who answered to Machison’s commands. And then there were his special ones, those he found appealing to his needs, pretty and untried, perfect to quench the hunger that consumed him.