Scourge

by Gail Z. Martin

  “Drink. There’s little that can’t be helped by a good cup of tea.”

  Rigan let the tea’s fragrance soothe him. “I thought the Wanderers could help me,” he said finally. “I thought they might know more about Mama’s magic.”

  “And they do. But they don’t share outside their clans.”

  Rigan gave a self-deprecating snort. “Yeah. Found that out.”

  “Why did you go to them instead of coming back to us?”

  He looked down into his cup for a moment before answering. “I thought that sharing their blood would count for more,” he said quietly. “Mama never told us how her grandmother left the clan. Maybe she didn’t know the truth herself. I know it seems foolish now, but I thought there might be something particular about her magic that was different from what you do down here.”

  “The magic we practice—that we’ll teach you—comes from the energy of the world around us, the natural currents of power,” Baker replied. “Blood magic comes from death; a primal, destructive energy. From everything I have observed, the Wanderers’ magic has the same source as ours. Intent is also key. Magic used for greed or in vengeance corrodes the soul and will eventually destroy the witch.”

  “Then I’m doomed. Because I’ve killed with magic.”

  Baker shook her head. “Self-defense is not the same as vengeance. I speak of cold retribution, hatred nurtured over time.”

  “She said that her people serve Eshtamon, and that they try to preserve the Balance.”

  Baker raised an eyebrow. “Did she, now?”

  “What does the Balance have to do with magic? People talk about it like it’s the gods balancing fortune and misfortune, as if something good happening in one place has to cause something bad to happen elsewhere.”

  Baker snorted. “The same fools blame witches for bad ale and the moon for spoiled cheese. I know that the Balance is real, and that currents of power flow through this world that few understand and fewer still can control. Perhaps the witches of the Crown Princes and the King understand such things, perhaps not. I’ve concerned myself with more practical magic. If you’re looking for insight into the Balance, I don’t think any of the witches Below have that kind of knowledge. Maybe the monks did, back before the monasteries fell. But not now.”

  “Is it a secret, or a mystery?” Rigan asked.

  “In a way, all magic seeks a balance. There is equilibrium in not drawing more power from your life force than you can sustain, in learning to tap into the air, water, earth, and fire around you, enough to achieve your purpose and not harm yourself. You have to understand when to use magic and when to not to, when to intervene, and when to let things take their course.” Baker smiled at him. “Perhaps you should worry about actually using your magic before you ponder the unknowable.”

  “I didn’t mean to make Damian angry, and I didn’t intend to seem ungrateful for all you’ve done.” Rigan kept his eyes averted.

  “You’re young and curious, burdened with a power you’ve only just discovered and have yet to harness. These are dangerous times, and you fear for your family. Your decision might have been unwise, but it was made for sound reasons.”

  “So you’ll still train me?”

  Baker chuckled. “Yes. In fact, I’ve got just the thing to start us off.” She pushed the cup of now-cool tea toward him. “Magic isn’t always about power. Most of the time, finesse is more important. It would be easy to use your magic to smash the cup, but I want you to use it to warm the tea.”

  Rigan’s eyes went wide. “I don’t know how!”

  “Power flows from intent. Think about warming the tea. You don’t have to make it boil. Just... make it warmer.”

  Rigan stared at the cup, utterly at a loss. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, thinking about holding the cup in his hands, feeling the smooth sides against his fingers, imagining how it would tingle in his grip if the tea were hot.

  “That’s it,” Baker encouraged. “Just a little more.”

  Rigan realized he had squeezed his eyes shut and pursed his lips in concentration, willing warmth into the amber liquid. All of a sudden, Baker yelped and Rigan’s eyes flew open. Steam rose from the tea, and Baker shook her hand.

  “Nicely done. You see? Learning to control your magic isn’t always about grand gestures and big displays. The most powerful magic often requires delicacy. You’ve done well tonight.”

  “Damian won’t throw me out?”

  Baker shook her head. “Give him a few days. He’ll get over it. Nothing has changed. You’re welcome here, and it would be best for everyone if you come often. But now I think you’d best get back to your brothers. I’ll walk you to the nearest passage to the surface.”

  “Thank you,” Rigan replied, setting his empty cup aside. “For everything.”

  Chapter Ten

  “IF YOU WANT additional protection, you’ll have to pay for it.” Machison leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his ample stomach.

  Dagan Sarca, Master of the Smiths’ Guild, was not ready to let the matter rest. “Our members pay their taxes. Surely those taxes should entitle us to protection by—and from—the Lord Mayor’s guards?” Sarca was slim, with sharp features and cold dark eyes that missed nothing.

  “Maintaining the Guards is expensive,” Machison countered. “It all costs money. Our League ranking already earns Ravenwood additional money from the King for defense—one of the benefits of keeping that favored agreement status with Garenoth, need I remind you.”

  “And we know that those guards keep the villas safe from monsters and assassins,” Sarca shot back. “Wheareas down in Wrighton and Skinton and Harbordon, where the rest of us live…”

  “Monsters go where they go,” Machison said with a shrug. “And there are plenty of guards in the lower city. But there won’t be, if these negotiations don’t succeed. We need the Guilds in support. All of the Guilds. Must I remind you about what we stand to lose? Right now, our preferred terms with Garenoth gets Ravenwood the first, best shipments from their farms. Fresh produce, not the rotting left-overs. Those go to Kasten and Solencia. We pay half the import fees as well, keeping materials cheap enough for you to turn a profit. Lose our favorable terms, and your goods get too expensive for people to buy them.”

  “Then see to the godsdamned agreement and let us get on with our business,” Ragh Lazin snapped. He was Master of the Vintners’ Guild, and his temper was as wild as his white hair. “And I’ve noticed that for all your talk, the guards have not rid us of Wanderers, which are the worst of the vermin.”

  Lazin didn’t have to elaborate; the other Guild Masters saw the nomads as he did. They suspected them of making wells run dry, chickens stop laying, and children to fall ill. Merchants hated them for their unlicensed peddling, and the Guilds despised them for providing services without membership. Only the wharf rats drew more ire.

  “Forget the Wanderers. What good is the new trade agreement going to do us?” Raston Zabak, the representative for the Artisans’ Guild, demanded, half-rising from his seat in indignation. He was perpetually red-faced, with a large, florid nose and broad, piglike features. “The artists of Ravenwood produce one-of-a-kind treasures for patrons. Will the agreement get us better prices on the pigments we import?”

  The Council of Guild Masters had convened in the palatial Guild Hall, and had invited the Lord Mayor to dine with them. Machison had accepted the invitation fully aware that it was likely to end in a brawl. His bodyguards stood behind him, visibly armed, just in case anyone was tempted to be rash. A delectable meal and a goblet of the finest wine went untouched in front of him, though the others ate and drank with relish. While his ring assured him the food and drink were not poisoned, he was not hungry enough to test his luck.

  “How do you think we feel? The Garenoth agreement isn’t going to import the dead,” Harb Orlo, Guild Master of Undertakers, retorted. “And we pay the same fees you do. We deserve better for our coin,” he added, fixing Machison
with a stare. “We don’t benefit from trade, so the least you could do is ensure enough guards to keep our people safe from monsters.”

  “Kasten and Solencia lost their favorable agreements with their trading partners a year ago,” Machison said. “Look what’s happened. The King reduced their allotment of guards and criminals took to the streets, killing as many residents as the monsters they claimed to hunt. Their city-states get the last of the harvest; and there wasn’t enough to go around last time, so they went hungry. The prices of their materials went up and they had to charge more for their goods, so no one buys from them. It’s bad enough that there’s talk of carving up both territories and giving the bits to neighboring states.”

  He did not share with them that some of the hardship befalling Kasten and Solencia came from bearing a heavier toll from the Cull, since their residents and merchants were more valuable to the King dead than alive.

  A shocked gasp went round the table. “The Crown Princes wouldn’t allow it,” Sarca challenged.

  “They’ll allow what the King requires. The situation got bad enough that King Rellan himself had to get involved, and he doesn’t like that,” Machison replied. “Now do you see why we can’t let your bickering get in the way of this agreement?”

  “This meeting isn’t about the agreement, it’s about the monsters.” Aviano Vrioni, head of the Carpenters’ Guild, rarely spoke, but when he did, others listened. He was tall and spare, with a long face and mournful eyes. “Don’t forget our purpose.” He slapped his hand on the table. “We are here to demand that the Lord Mayor spend more of the Guild taxes we pay him to protect us. We accomplish nothing if we fight among ourselves.”

  Machison watched the conversation with an unreadable expression born of long experience. Oh, you accomplish a great deal if you argue. You remain divided, which makes my job so much easier.

  Part of his role as Lord Mayor of Ravenwood was to broker peace among its various constituencies. The commoners required little negotiation; the strong presence of the guards ensured their compliance. But many residents were tradesmen and merchants, and while they had little power as individuals, the Guilds kept alive the economy of the city-state, and gathered as a council, they had significant commercial power. If they ever stopped sparring with each other, they might present a serious threat. The Lord Mayor spent a good bit of his time and energy assuring that the Guilds always remained at odds.

  Yet during the touchy negotiations between Ravenwood and Garenoth, Machison could not afford ill-timed remarks or aggressive maneuvering by the Guilds. Hence the hostages; a guarantee that the Guilds would remain on a short leash, complaining as always, but effectively defanged.

  “The smiths pay more than their share,” Sarca continued. “We pay tax on the wood for our forges and smelters, and we have to pay another fee to have our goods loaded onto ships.”

  “So charge more for your bloody iron,” Lazin snapped. “Vintners pay a tax on our land and a barrel assessment. Our prices reflects that.”

  “Don’t blame the coopers,” Vrioni argued. “We have nothing to do with the tax. We pay fees of our own, for over-priced iron barrel hoops and nails.”

  “If you don’t like the price of iron, do without it,” Sarca returned. “We pay taxes and fees that you don’t. It has to come back to us in the price.”

  “I’m tired of hearing the lot of you whine,” Vrioni growled. “Carpentry’s hard work—not like squeezing a few grapes,” he said, glaring at Lazin. “Dangerous work, too.”

  “Especially if your members are the ones doing the building,” Taj Ruci retorted. “So drunk they can’t build a wall straight.”

  “The only thieves worse than the merchants are the whores,” Vrioni replied, his lip curling in a sneer. “I knew it was a mistake attending this meeting. A complete waste of time. Five of the Guilds didn’t even bother to come.” He looked to Machison. “I’ve suggested more than once we split the Council—half for the real trades, and the other half for everyone else.”

  Machison sighed. Vrioni’s views were well known, and he repeated them as often as anyone would listen. In his mind, only the ‘muscular’ trades like carpentry, smithing, ship building, and tanning were Guild-worthy. The rest—glassmakers, shopkeepers, tavern masters, distillers, weavers, potters, cobblers and tailors, chandlers, artists, and others—he viewed as too pedestrian for Guild status. It was an opinion that did not win him friends on the Council.

  “I can’t see where the artisans gain any advantage from the negotiations,” Zabak insisted. “We pay a premium for our pigments and a fee to import rare materials, but we won’t gain foreign patrons from the Alliance.”

  “You eat, don’t you? Nice to have enough plenty of food of all kinds on a regular basis that’s not full of worms when it comes off the ships,” Sarca challenged. “And while I’m all for getting more guards, I’ve got no desire to lose the ones the King sends us, or have to charge so much for our goods that we’re beggared when no one can buy.”

  Machison had learned long ago that if he allowed his antagonists to do the talking, they would fight his battles for him. He struggled to keep a satisfied smile from his lips. There’s only one harbor in Ravenwood. There’s nowhere else to take their precious trade. Prices only ever go one way—up. It’s the way of the world.

  “We came here to talk about the trade agreement with Garenoth. Continuing the current arrangement serves the Merchant Princes, but the terms aren’t equally favorable to all the Guilds, and it’s time to fix that. Another ten years of those terms will put some of us in the poor house, even given our favored status with Garenoth—and there is no trade at all without the Guilds to make what goes into the holds of those ships!” Lazin growled. “We want a say in the negotiations.”

  “The agreement isn’t fair to the smaller Guilds,” Zabak argued. “That has to be addressed.”

  “You bring in less of the money, account for less of the trade,” Vrioni shot back. “So you get less of the profits, and have less of a voice.”

  “The Guilds get better terms in some of the other city-states,” Zabak persisted.

  “Those city-state have different resources,” Sarca practically shouted. “Different Guilds get favored because their trades bring in the most money. That has no bearing on our agreement.”

  “This meeting isn’t about the Garenoth agreement,” Orlo repeated. “It’s about getting our due for the fees we pay for the guards. It’s about having the guards do their jobs and kill the monsters—instead of their own people. And if they won’t do their jobs, then they need to leave the hunters alone.”

  Machison stirred at that. He leaned forward. “Make more money, and the King will send more guards. Are you alleging that my guards are derelict in their duty?” His voice was low and level. “That’s a very serious charge. I hope you have proof. Doubly so, if you’re supporting brigands like the hunters.”

  Machison had no doubt that guards demanded more than the merchants and tradespeople were required to pay, or that they pocketed the difference, or that they roughed up whomever they pleased to reinforce who was in charge. Just another cost of doing business. But proof would be impossible to find. No one would be foolish enough to bear witness—or survive long if they did.

  “I was making a comparison, m’lord,” Orlo backtracked, reddening. “I did not mean to accuse.”

  I’m quite sure you meant every word , Machison thought, enjoying Orlo’s discomfort. But you also know not to make an enemy of me. Let’s see you get out of this one.

  The sound of an empty goblet clanging like a bell against the edge of the table silenced them all.

  “My Lord Mayor,” Candra Pask, the head of the Weavers’ and Dyers’ Guild, said. The authority in her voice silenced the others; none wanted to fall victim to her sharp tongue. “We fear for our safety. People go missing. Unspeakable creatures hunt our alleys. We pay our fees for the protection of the guards. Give us the security we’ve paid to receive.” Pask crossed her thin
arms over her chest and gave Machison a steely glare.

  “My good lady,” Machison said, mustering as sincere a smile as he could manage. “You’ve gotten to the heart of the issue. The guards that are now in Ravenwood—and patrolling the boroughs of Wrighton and Skinton—are exactly what you have paid for, plus those allotted from the King. If you want more protection, I’m afraid it will require higher fees.”

  Pask’s expression made clear her thoughts, but she said nothing. Taj Ruci spoke up instead. “I have been asked to speak on behalf of the Shopkeepers’ Guild as well as the Taverns and Distillers. Guild Master Pask is right, Ravenwood is beset with disappearances and plagued by monsters. People will risk the possibility of having their pockets picked to do their shopping or go to a tavern, but they won’t come if they fear for their lives.”

  “Surely you exaggerate,” Machison said smoothly. “I hear no such dire news from the guards who patrol the streets long into the night. A few incidents, yes; there are always runaways and stowaways, or those who leave to seek their fortunes outside the city walls. As for the ‘monsters’—feral animals taken with fever can be vicious and behave strangely. You mustn’t let wild talk affect business.”

  Vrioni leaned forward as if to speak, and then froze. He toppled from his chair with a grimace. He convulsed, and vomited with such force that those seated near him scattered to avoid being soiled. The Guild Masters gasped and drew back in fear.

  Lazin turned to Orlo. “You’re the undertaker. Do something!”

  Orlo gave him a withering glance. “He needs a healer, not a gravedigger.” He glared at Machison. “Call one now!”

  Machison motioned to one of the guards, gave a hushed order, and sent him on his way.

  Vrioni had grown deathly pale. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated. He moaned and clutched his abdomen, rolling in pain. He had emptied his stomach and voided his bowels, and the smell was overpowering.