All That Glitters

by Auston Habershaw

  Gethrey’s face froze, the smile fixed in place. “I beg your pardon?”

  Tyvian rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Geth—­you had a Quiet Man fish me out of the damned gutter and you thought I wouldn’t notice? Give it up, man. Come clean.”

  Gethrey’s smile gradually crumpled into something shriveled and bitter. “Well, good for you and your oh-­so-­impressive brain. I fail to see how having me followed would—­”

  “You forget, my friend—­I’ve had a lot more experience with underworld types than you have. The Mute Prophets have a certain pattern of operation common to many crime syndicates. They prefer to use ­people rather than kill them. So, there were three possibilities in my sending my protégés after you: First, you would do nothing and be followed to your home, in which case you would be the same old hopelessly, clueless failed socialite you always were—­”

  Gethrey’s face reddened, even over and above the blush he was wearing. “ ‘Failed’ socialite? Failed? I’ll have you know—­”

  “Oh, and you’d have me believe your inviting me to the club wasn’t a desperate ploy to improve your social image? I doubt all those ­people crowding around me today were there to shake your hand, but there you were, arm locked in mine and beaming like you’d just struck gold in your garden. The only reason I’m sitting here—­the only reason you’re trying to beat me over the head with your garish wealth, Gethrey—­is because I’m your only hope for a respectable life.” Tyvian held Gethrey’s gaze, and gradually, Gethrey’s indignation cooled to some kind of embarrassment. His eyes dropped to his wine and he swirled it around like a sullen child.

  Tyvian pressed on. “You might have killed Artus and Brana here—­that was the second option—­in which unlikely case you’d become a significantly more vicious and independent fellow. You didn’t and haven’t become such, naturally. Instead, you sought to co-­opt them, just like the Prophets co-­opted you somehow. That told me everything I needed to know.”

  “What?” Tyvian looked over to see Artus climbing unsteadily to his feet. “You mean you sent me and Brana after a guy who coulda killed us and I didn’t even get to bring a weapon?”

  Tyvian scowled. “Don’t be dramatic, Artus—­I just explained that—­”

  “Don’t be ‘dramatic’?” Artus’s face was flushed crimson—­Tyvian knew that face well. He tried to rise in time to meet the boy’s charge but didn’t get halfway up before Artus threw his body into Tyvian’s midsection in a full-­body tackle, roaring as he did so. He might have dodged the attack, but he let it happen. It was a good opportunity to slip an envelope into the boy’s jacket pocket, and he couldn’t guarantee he’d get another chance.

  This meant he wound up on his back, his head half buried in an odious Illini whore-­cushion. Tyvian tried to twist out of Artus’s grip, but Artus—­even tipsy Artus—­had learned too much from Hool to be easily thrown. In the blink of an eye Artus was straddling Tyvian’s chest, his knees pinning Tyvian’s arms and his right fist cocked to break Tyvian’s nose. “YOU LOUSY SON OF A BITCH!”

  Just then Brana’s arm locked under Artus’s chin and wrenched the boy off Tyvian. “No, Artus!” Brana snarled. “Bad!”

  The two juveniles began to brawl, throwing each other around like so many bags of sawdust in a Rhondian gymnasium. An end table broke, rugs were scuffed, and the two of them growled at each other like animals, cursing in both Trade and gnoll-­speak in equal measure.

  Tyvian drew back from the melee and did his best to straighten his shirt. Gethrey was laughing at him. “That was a sight, Tyv. I shall cherish it forever.”

  Gethrey’s liveried thugs moved in on the brawl, each trying to get ahold of the other. Brana had his mouth open and his tongue out, clearly enjoying himself. Artus was still swearing and trying to shake himself free from the brutes’ meat-­hook grasp.

  Gethrey crooked a finger at Tyvian. “Shall we repair to my study? For business?”

  Tyvian retrieved Chance and banished the blade so he could slip the weapon up his sleeve. He then followed Gethrey up the stairs and into another large chamber—­this one occupying the sterncastle of the ship. The décor here was still mired in gold leaf and asinine cherubic woodcarvings. Aside from a vast desk too large to be functionally useful save, perhaps, as a portable badminton court, the room was dominated by an enormous four-­poster bed draped with delicate lace and fitted with leopard-­print sheets. The sight of it nearly made Tyvian physically ill.

  Gethrey positioned himself behind the desk. It took a while for him to walk around it. “Tyvian, I believe you and I can help each other.”

  “Oh?”

  Gethrey nodded. “Oh yes, oh yes—­very much so. Look, Tyvian, I’ve always known where I stand in polite society. I’m not a dunce. My family is poor, nobody has attained a staff in a hundred years—­the Andolons are a laughingstock. A bunch of good-­for-­nothing dandies who own a swath of worthless swampland, right? That’s half the reason you started hanging around with me, wasn’t it? Just to spite your mother.”

  Tyvian snorted. “More than half, to be honest.”

  Gethrey chuckled. “Have it your way. But one thing has changed in all that time, Tyvian—­I’m not poor anymore. I’m filthy, stinking rich.”

  Tyvian blinked. “You don’t say? And here I was thinking this ship was rented.”

  Gethrey’s smile got sharper—­the smile of a little dog about to bite. “The Mundane, Tyvian—­a clever man, a man who doesn’t mind getting his hands a little dirty, a man with a few connections—­can make an absolute killing on the exchange. When my father died, I sold the estate and sunk it all into investments. Doubled my money in two years. Kept doubling it, too. A decade of that, and here I am—­the richest single man in Saldor.”

  Tyvian rolled his eyes. “Oh, please—­the old sorcerous families have fifty times your wealth.”

  Gethrey nodded. “Yes, yes they do—­because of the Secret Exchange, Tyv. That’s where the real money is made and kept and held up. Everything we make on the Mundane, all those fools flitting about on the third floor of the club—­everything they make trickles up, not down. The magi make money on top of the money on top of the money. It’s obscene.”

  Tyvian yawned. “I keep waiting for this to involve me, Geth.”

  Gethrey got very still. Tyvian knew the posture—­every time Geth was about to ask for something he was worried he wouldn’t get, he got like this. In his youth, it had the effect of making him look like a scared deer. Now, he seemed more like a snake, coiled to strike. “I’m going to knock the magi off their pedestal, Tyv. I’m going to make them see a new world, with me at the center of it.”

  Tyvian pursed his lips. “You’re going to crash the Secret Exchange somehow and then short-­trade a series of stockpiled commodities to corner much of the Mundane. If it works, the mayhem will bankrupt most of the wealthiest sorcerous families and firms in Saldor, and you’ll be the only person left standing for them to turn to in the wreckage.”

  Dead silence followed. Gethrey looked as though he had his finger caught in a mousetrap.

  Tyvian smiled at him. “Am I close?”

  “How did you figure it out?”

  Because the Chairman of the Secret Exchange told me as much. Tyvian thought, but said, “Does it really matter? Where do I come in?”

  Gethrey shrugged. “Investors are, ultimately, gamblers. The thing is that the magi, with all their scrying, feel like the gamble is a sure thing. So, while the Mundane sees peaks and troughs as we mere mortals scurry from unreliable tip to unverifiable rumor, the magi are unused to uncertainty. Not much scares them.” He grinned. “Not much except you.”

  Tyvian nodded. “You need me to start a panic. That’s all?”

  “I’ll pay you a handsome percentage—­say fifteen percent?”

  Tyvian regarded his old friend and said nothing for a moment. The amount of m
oney he was being offered right now was . . . was incredible, frankly. Tens of millions of gold marks—­enough to buy his own private island and grow his own substandard red wine until Akral burned it all down. In all his smuggling career he had never been made such an offer. He had always been a custom importer—­dealing in small shipments of specific and rare items to expensive clients. It was lucrative, but on the scale that Gethrey was talking about, it was nothing—­a drop in the bucket. Gethrey was, in essence, offering him a significant percentage of the wealth of every mage in Saldor. It was enough gold to buy a thousand Argent Winds, fit them for sea, and sail their fat hulls around the known world, handing a bucket of silver out to every whore in every port from here to Sandris.

  And the ring hadn’t even given him a pinch. Not so much as a dull throb.

  “I’ll need an answer now,” Gethrey said, hands gripping the armrests of his chair.

  “What’s the catch?” Tyvian asked. Something was gnawing on the edge of his nerves. Something about this didn’t make sense. “Why me? You have the Prophets helping you—­why not use them?”

  Gethrey sighed. “Because you’re special, Tyvian—­is that what you want to hear? Because in all the bloody world, only Tyvian Reldamar can trick his own brother into letting the market crash around his ears. Happy now?” The fop took a deep breath. “Don’t be a fool, Tyv—­this offer won’t come around again. Not for either of us. The amount of money you’ll have is—­”

  “Yes, I can do arithmetic, thank you.” Tyvian rubbed his chin. Wasn’t this what he wanted? Obviously Gethrey couldn’t be trusted, and obviously the Mute Prophets were going to double-­cross the preening dandy when it became convenient for them. There was nothing stopping Tyvian, though, from profiting, however temporarily, from Gethrey’s ambitious little designs. He’d have a shipload of gold and be well out to sea by the time Geth’s corpse was found floating in the harbor. It would solve all his ring-­related troubles forever. He could finance a fleet and search for the Yldd at his leisure.

  But then again, something about this deal stank. Namely, that it all seemed too easy. How did a self-­important dimwit like Geth get into this position? Tyvian had his suspicions. It was, again, too convenient, too prepackaged. It stank of a setup, just like Myreon, just like that patsy in the club this afternoon. How convenient that Gethrey just happened to be in his coach to pick him up when he needed the help. Yes, convenient indeed.

  “No.” Tyvian stood up. “I don’t think so.”

  Gethrey’s plucked eyebrows shot up. “Oh? Don’t feel I’m being generous enough?”

  Tyvian took a scan around the room—­no guards, no weapons. Good. “It isn’t that, Geth. It’s that you’re not planning a money-­making venture, you’re planning financial apocalypse.”

  Gethrey shrugged. “What do you care? Are you trying to tell me that you’ll feel bad for the plutocrats who have run the world this past century? Your whole career has been building to this moment, Tyv. This will be your masterwork.”

  Tyvian laughed. His masterwork? Cheating half the world just to sleep on a pile of money for the rest of his life? He kept laughing.

  Gethrey stood up, frowning. “I don’t really see what’s so funny, Tyv.”

  Tyvian, though, couldn’t stop laughing. “If . . . if I wanted to . . . to exploit the financial system of the West . . . I would have become . . . a bloody mage!”

  Gethrey’s frown deepened. “The time of the mage is almost over, Tyvian. My plan will work with or without you. Choose now.”

  Tyvian gradually got ahold of himself. He took a deep breath. “I’m afraid my particular brand of mayhem will not be contracted by you, Geth, nor by your . . . associates.”

  It was as though he had slapped Gethrey in the face. He blinked, adjusted his hat, and then smiled bloodlessly. “Very well, Mr. Reldamar.” He motioned to the door. “Let us get you a boat.”

  Tyvian nodded. “Yes, let’s.”

  CHAPTER 14

  A DRAMATIC EXIT

  Tyvian looked over the side of the Argent Wind to the longboat that rested there for his use. He felt like he was forgetting something. Oh, right—­Artus and Brana.

  The two of them were standing on deck, their clothing mussed. Brana was all smiles, but Artus had his fists clenched and his face screwed up into a scowl. Tyvian jerked his head over the side of the ship. “Artus, Brana—­in the boat!”

  Brana yipped and moved to obey, but Artus put a hand on the young gnoll’s shrouded arm. “We’re staying.”

  Despite himself, Tyvian blinked. “What?”

  Artus pulled himself to his full height. “I figure we should stick around with Andolon some more—­and so should you, not that you’ll listen. We stay, and there’s no more dirty work, no more carrying stuff, no more getting yelled at. What do you got to offer, huh?”

  Tyvian shrugged. “Daring escapes and a life of adventure?”

  Artus rolled his eyes. “A ­couple weeks ago I was almost eaten by a plant monster. No thanks.”

  “There, Reldamar—­you see? Even the boy is reasonable.” Gethrey put his arm around Artus. Tyvian noted with some satisfaction that the boy clearly didn’t enjoy the touch of his new employer, but had the sense not to say anything. Gethrey nodded toward the longboat. “You leave this ship, and I can’t guarantee your safety, Tyv, not even for old times’ sake. You should reconsider.”

  Tyvian ignored him. Instead he looked at Brana. “What about you? Your mother will be angry.”

  Brana seemed to consider this for a moment, and then he also threw an arm around Artus’s shoulders. “We brothers. Stay.”

  Tyvian nodded. “Well, keep your eyes open, then.” He bowed slightly to Gethrey—­the bow a nobleman would extend to a commoner of exceptional reputation, or, in other words, a small bob of the head. “Thank you for your hospitality, Geth. It’s a shame your plan for world domination is doomed to failure and all. I feel pretty rotten about it, honestly.”

  Gethrey snorted. “Not at all, Tyv. Perhaps I’ll remember you when I’m sitting atop my endless pile of money. Who will be the pitiful one then?”

  Tyvian cocked his head. “You know, you never mentioned what it was that the Prophets had on you to reel you in.”

  Gethrey’s blue hair seemed likely to stand up on end. “That’s none of your . . .” He took a deep breath and shook his head. The fop released Artus then and made a good show of rearranging his cuff lace. “It wasn’t my intention, Tyvian. I sort of just . . . fell into it.”

  Tyvian watched his old friend carefully—­it took a moment for him to remember all the facial cues, but then he had it, as readable as an open book. He clapped his hands. “That’s it! Claudia!”

  Gethrey’s mouth snapped closed. All the color fled from his cheeks, so that beneath his powdered makeup he looked very much like a corpse. “What?”

  “You always were infatuated with her, weren’t you?” Tyvian rolled his eyes, laughing, “Oh, but for the Prophets to get their hooks in you, it would have to be more than infatuation, wouldn’t it?”

  Gethrey’s voice dropped an octave. “Tyvian, watch yourself.”

  Tyvian was agog. “You fell in love with her, didn’t you? Oh, Gethrey, Gethrey . . .” Tyvian couldn’t help but grin. “Was there a ring involved?”

  Gethrey clenched his teeth, his cheeks coloring as he spoke. “I think you’d better go.”

  “Blackmail, then.” Tyvian nodded, swinging one leg over the side of the Argent Wind. “You take collections for the Prophets, and they don’t spill news of your doomed love affair with a Crosstown mistress to the upper echelons. My my, Gethrey—­how the mighty have fallen. Having to play pimp for your lady love—­my, my, my . . .”

  Brana cocked his head. “Pimp?”

  “I’m not a . . .” Gethrey wrung his hands. “Get off my ship, you insolent lout! I can see you’re no different than yo
u ever were—­hell-­bent on ruining your own damned life. Our trajectories have switched, though, Tyv! You used to drag me down, but now I’m on my way up.”

  “Well,” Tyvian sighed. “I suppose I’ll just have to find solace in my good looks, elegant taste, and average height.”

  Gethrey scowled. “Get off my ship.”

  Tyvian needed no further invitation, as spending one more moment aboard that ship was likely to permanently injure his eyesight. As it was, he expected to be seeing gold leaf on everything for days. He hopped the rail and started down the ladder.

  Gethrey came to the rail as he descended. His voice cracked with anger. “For all your posturing and despite that vicious reputation of yours, deep down I know you’re still that little boy who cried over the body of Ryndal Gathren after you ran him through! You’re a romantic, Tyvian, and the world is too hard for you! That’s why you’re walking away!”

  Tyvian took one last look up and shook his head slowly. “This from the man who proposed marriage to a whore.”

  Then he was down in the boat and he was off, rowing himself quietly across the busy afternoon harbor. He plotted a course between a few fat Illini cargo galleys, their hulls black with pitch and speckled with barnacles. He still felt like he was forgetting something. Something important.

  He ticked off his goals for the afternoon on one hand. Check in on Artus and Brana? Done. Find out what Gethrey’s angle was? Done. Find out where Gethrey was headquartered? Done. Figure out who sent the Quiet Man after him in Derby? Done.

  “Ah!” Tyvian snapped his fingers. “Right! The Quiet Man!”

  At that moment a shadow fell over him. Tyvian twisted to look, but something thin and sharp—­a garrote—­wrapped around his throat and he was pulled backward.

  It was the Quiet Man. He had been sitting in the longboat the whole time, but Tyvian hadn’t noticed he was there.

  He struggled and thrashed, but the Quiet Man had a good hold. The world was dimming around him; the blood pounded in his ears. Above him the impassive expression of his murderer floated as though in a dream. With his last conscious thought he realized he had only one shot at survival. He threw all his weight to one side, tipping the boat. The seawater rushed in as the boat capsized and both of them fell overboard.