by Patty Jansen
An agreement had been put into law and signed witnessed by five Foundation families from each side. The Nikala would continue to work the land if the Endri looked after their protection and shelter from the weather. The Foundation agreement had survived the expansion of Miran into most of the continent, it had survived the Coldi invasion and the subsequent hasty development of a Mirani flight and space program, and its connection with other entities of gamra. The agreement had worked for so long.
Foundation was the heart of Mirani society.
The Foundation monument stood at the place where the agreement was said to have been signed, and probably dated from a hundred years after Foundation. In its heyday, it would have been a magnificent building, but the roof once upheld by the pillars had long gone, and since no one had thought to extend the lighting to the monument, it stood ghostly and forgotten against the more modern splendour.
Yet people hadn't forgotten it. From the window at the hospital, Mikandra saw people walk across the stone platform every day. School children who learned about the city's history, couples who came to be married under the eye of the ancestors. They were often simple folk, but every now and then, there would be a high-profile wedding and the town square would be full of people.
What would those ancestors think if they saw the city now? Some of the Endri, especially the older women, believed that the ancestors watched their city from the sky. They believed that the ancestors guided the hands of those in power.
Mikandra reached out and touched the rough stone of one of the pillars. "Please," she asked of the ancestors. "Tell me if you approve of what I'm about to do."
This was her point of no return. Here, she could either go uphill, and home, or downhill to the Trader Guild office.
Home and comfortable certainties or the unknown, hardship and distress.
Was it more of the same that had never made a difference to anyone in the last few centuries, or was it something new and frightening?
Courage. She balled her fists against her chest and raised her face to the dark sky. The wind whipped her hair into her face. A couple of snowflakes landed on her forehead and cheeks. It all came down to a simple pledge, spoken by children entering school.
I swear by the blood of my ancestors that has flowed in this place that I will do my best to make things better for my family, for my people and for Miran.
The road best taken would not always be the easiest one.
Mikandra stepped down from the monument and turned downhill.
* * *
The Trader Guild office was housed in one of the older buildings surrounding the square. In the huge echoing foyer, merchants came for bidding wars to buy the latest imported goods. There must have been a recent delivery, because the hall was full of men in thick cloaks displaying their family colours. Most of them faced the back wall of the foyer where columns of codes and numbers scrolled over a screen. Each represented a consignment of goods entered by a Trader's staff. The four-digit codes represented the Trader offering the goods. She couldn't see any under 1101, the prestigious Andrahar licence, but there was 1102, Tussamar Traders, and a few others she recognised. The merchants queued up at the counter underneath the screen to put in their bids. Apparently, or so Aunt Amandra had told her, this was a really primitive way of passing goods to local merchants.
She wrestled through the hall without attracting much attention. A wide stone staircase led up to the second floor, where the high-ceilinged Guild foyer was more quiet.
There were only a few people up here, one of them talking to the desk attendant, a Guild employee in carmine red. Had they heard about the dead courier yet?
The other men in the room were merchants, probably here to pay for the deals they'd sealed downstairs. Mikandra sat in the upholstered chairs to wait her turn, listening to snatches of the merchants' conversations, mostly about goods they had purchased.
The sound of voices drifted up from the hall downstairs. A few more merchants came up into the foyer and settled in the chairs next to Mikandra.
"Can I help you, lady?" the Guild employee said.
There was only one lady in the room, and Mikandra went up to the counter under the gazes of all the men. She tried to ignore them, but felt self-conscious. As Trader, she would have to get used to this. Aunt Amandra said that after all her years as the Mirani chapter of the Guild's only female Trader, people in Miran still watched her every move.
"I came to deliver this." She produced the letter with her notice of acceptance.
The employee looked at it and frowned. Looked at her again. His frown deepened.
Behind his counter was a door which bore a sign Traders only beyond this point. One day soon, she would walk into that room, and all the men would look at her.
"That is . . . unusual."
"Sure." She smiled at him.
"I better see if I have been given an acceptance satchel for you." He sounded like he thought the letter was a mistake.
While he rummaged behind the counter, it went quiet in the foyer. Mikandra turned around and smiled at the merchants who were all staring at her.
As it turned out, and to the employee's obvious surprise, he had been sent a satchel, a bundle of books and something that felt soft and would be her apprentice uniform. Once you were a Trader, you rarely wore non-uniform clothes anymore. Goodbye frilly dresses.
She left the building clutching the parcel, feeling more confident about herself than she had been for a long time. The courier would not die in vain. Iztho had not placed trust in her for nothing. The ancient ancestors would see that she was true to her promise to Miran.
The commercial precinct was on the other side of the square, and right on the corner, above Merchant Ranuddin's exclusive clothing store was her destination: the double doors that led up the stairs to the Andrahar office.
She'd been there a few times before she applied, but not since that time.
The light was on in the windows above the shop that overlooked the square, and lights blazed in the stairwell. She wondered who was here and what she would say if Iztho was away. He had signed the application, but she had not seen him since. Also, she had very little interaction with the three other brothers beyond having passed them upstairs in the office. Whenever she had come here, Rehan usually wore a detached and aloof expression and barely noticed her, Braedon would nod politely and carry on with his work, and Taerzo was the only one who would smile.
What would she say to them if Iztho wasn't in?
She pushed the door, and it wouldn't open.
What? Hadn't Iztho said that there was always someone at the office day or night?
She rattled the door, but it was locked. Through the glass, she could see the bar of the lock in place. Her breath steamed in the cold.
Well, this was something she hadn't factored into her plans. How would she let the brothers know of her acceptance if there was no one in the office?
She let her gaze roam the square, from the brightly-lit council buildings to the library and the covered market hall, now with all the doors closed for the night.
Merchant Ranuddin himself was pulling down the blinds over the windows of his business. As was typical for the Nikala merchants, he dressed more elaborately than the Endri. As seller of exclusive clothing, that effect was heightened with his immaculate thick and lush cloak, his high boots with trim of fur and embroidery.
He gave her a strange look that made her feel underdressed and inadequate in her plain hospital clothes. She smiled awkwardly. "I'm after the Andrahar brothers."
"They're not here," he said from within the fur-rimmed hood of his cloak.
She had noticed that. "Do you know where they are?"
"They closed up and sent everyone home. Some big thing going on, apparently, or so the gossip has it. You know how Traders are. The entire world will know what's going on before Miran knows it."
She ignored the underhand stab. "Do you know where they went?" But as she said this, she suspected th
at might be about the announcement of a marriage.
Merchant Ranuddin shrugged. "Home, I guess."
"All right, thanks."
"What do you want anyway, girl? A nice lady like you shouldn't be out here at a time like this and in weather like this."
"I'm fine, really." Although she was shivering so much that she could barely speak, whether it was from the cold or nerves she couldn't tell. She cast a glance at the sky, which had indeed grown alarmingly dark.
He gave her a you don't look fine glance but fortunately remained quiet.
There was nothing for it. She made her decision, and now she wanted to let Iztho know. She needed to know about practical information, such as money, and where she'd live until she went to Kedras. The Andrahar house wasn't far from here. The scavengers didn't come out until much later, right? All the attacks always happened after midnight, or so she told herself while hurrying through the streets.
She walked close to walls, her hands in her pockets and her ears hidden under the upturned collar of her cloak, doing her best impression of something non-edible in the eyes of maramarang and hoping that whichever street gang had killed the Guild courier would not find her.
The Andrahar house was one of the oldest in the Endri quarter and in the best position. It lay on a slight rise, and overlooked most of the city while it was still comfortably far removed from the city walls. The yard was bigger than those of surrounding houses, covered with pebbles and surrounded by a tall wall that spanned an entire block. Wall and house were painted white. The wall had an elaborate front gate, which she had never seen closed. A path of whitestone pavers led from the gate to the front door, hidden within the darkness of the overhanging porch. A distant light peeped through the leadlight windows of the door; she guessed it was somewhere at the far end of the hall or beyond, but no other light was on. Not in the room next to the door which was Iztho's, not in the study or in any of the upstairs bedrooms.
What if the brothers were out celebrating?
What else could this be about than Iztho's announcement that he was getting married?
When she visited Iztho in his room, an elaborate maroon dress had been hanging on the outside of the wardrobe door. She'd guessed it was the Andrahar family's official wedding gown—no one had seen that garment since Isandra and Jihan married many years ago—and figured Iztho was about to announce his choice of bride. Rumours of an impending marriage had been around for years.
Iztho mentioned the dress when he noticed her looking at it. Yes, he was getting married, and no, it wasn't locally. She wanted to ask him if that wasn't a problem with the family succession, but that seemed an improper question to ask.
Mikandra walked up to the door. Somewhere inside the house, a male voice shouted. The tone sounded angry.
She knocked. The voice stopped, and in the silence came the sound of footsteps. A moment later, the door was opened by Taerzo, the youngest brother. Relief flooded her.
She smiled at him, holding up the letter. "I got in. I got the letter of acceptance this afternoon. Father is furious and I wonder—"
He did not return her smile. Then she noticed that he wasn't in uniform.
Traders always wore uniform, even if they didn't work. She didn't think she'd ever seen Aunt Amandra out of uniform.
"Is anything wrong?" Her heart jumped.
"You best come in," Taerzo said.
Chapter 6
Mikandra stepped into the hall, which seemed impossibly warm and smelled of freshly-baked fish bread. Taerzo closed the door behind her.
She stomped the snow off her boots on the mat, slipped them off and put them next to the men's boots lined up next to the door. She selected the smallest pair of slippers she could find on the rack under the cloak stand. They enfolded her feet with luxurious warmth, and the fur that lined the inside had not yet flattened with use.
She followed Taerzo—wearing similar footwear—across the hall into the living room, where traditional oil lamps burned in sconces and their flapping flames made grotesque shadows on the walls. With its marble flooring, antique hearth and hand-crafted furniture, the house was the epitome of old-fashioned noble Endri households. Well, except for the hub with its blinking lights in the corner of the hall.
In the living room, Braedon sat at the table behind a huge pile of books. He glanced up when Taerzo came in, looked back at his books and then up again at Mikandra. He raised his eyebrows and raked his hair behind his ear. Apart from Taerzo, who was not that much older than her and was considered to be the joker of the family, she found Braedon least intimidating. He was rather plain, straightforward and quiet. He did not wear lots of jewellery or other display of status like his two older brothers. He came into the hospital quite a bit, and was always courteous and kind to the nurses or surgeons and knew a lot about healing.
He gestured to the seat next to him.
Mikandra sat, still clutching the letter. On the page in the book facing him were long columns of financial data. He had a reader on his other side, which was, apart from the hub in the hall, the only concession to technology in this very traditional house. The screen glared more columns of figures.
She was going to tell them what happened, but Braedon brought his fingers to his lips.
There were voices at the back of the room, in a section partitioned off from the dining area by a sliding door.
Through the glass in the door, she could see second-oldest brother Rehan in front of the hearth, facing a man who sat on the couch.
"Anyway," Rehan was saying, the words only slightly muffled by the door. "Whatever has caused it and why ever you did this, your behaviour has been nothing short of grossly inadequate. You're going to have a lot of explaining to do, and unless I'm satisfied, I will call in the Guild Lawkeepers, and they will get to the bottom of this."
"You're not going to sack me?" The man sounded incredulous.
"You've worked with us for long enough to know that is not our style. Make no mistake, I would very much like to sack you, but it does not solve anything. Sacking you does not put our accounts in order."
"Uhm . . . I guess."
Mikandra realised the man on the couch was the Andrahar account keeper, Trimon Estredin, the husband of one of her mother's theatre friends.
"You guess?" Rehan continued in his booming voice. "You guess? There is no room for guesses. What I want is your reason for delivering poor work. Why did you approve these books? Why did you sign all these pages that clearly don't balance? Where is the missing money?"
"I'd have to sit down and go through. I honestly don't remember the details of all those accounts."
There was a heavy thud of some object hitting wood. "Bullshit! That's fucking bullshit and you know it. You know what happened. You were there. This is your work! Get the fuck out of here. Go to the office. Come back when you have something to say. Don't dare run away. Don't think we won't find you."
The man rose and left the room at a run. A moment later, the door shut.
Heaving a big sign, Rehan opened the partition doors. "Fucking numbskull. Blubbering nitwit." He stopped a few paces into the room, and frowned at Mikandra. Met her eyes. His hair, normally a silk-like curtain over his back, had become entangled in the clasp of his cloak. His cheeks were red. "What's this about? Any more problems?"
Mikandra lifted the letter.
"I got my letter of acceptance," she said, but she no longer felt exuberant. Something was very wrong.
"The fuck you did?"
Braedon said, "Rehan, please mind your—"
"Don't tell me what I can or can't say in my own house. We don't have the time to deal with fucking pambies."
He still looked at Mikandra. His expression was so penetrating that she felt like fleeing. He had the typical narrow Endri face, pronounced cheekbones, strong eyebrows, the hairs bristly and white. His eyes were almost as light as his older brother's, but his lips were much fuller and expressive, a bit like Braedon's.
He was very tall,
and held his back straight and proud. At least he wore his Trading uniform, the khaki shirt and trousers with the ornate belt and his high boots. But she couldn't see the medallion with the emblem of the Guild and the licence number.
"All right, you win. No more fucking swearing in the presence of women, eh?" He blew out a breath and turned to the window.
Mikandra looked back at Braedon who at least didn't terrify her as much. "What's wrong?"
"We've had our licence suspended by court order."
What? A big black hole opened in Mikandra's mind. A suspended licence meant no sponsorship. It meant no work, no place for her to go to. It meant—how was that even possible? These were the Andrahar Traders, the most influential in all of Miran. "What happened?" Black spots crept into her vision.
"We're trying to sort that out. Someone has officially accused Iztho of smuggling. The documents support the claim."
"Is he here?" Please.
Braedon shook his head. "We haven't heard from him for a few days, ever since this crisis broke. We can't raise him on the network. We put out a missing person call."
"Missing?" The ground fell away underneath her. She heard Father's voice You know how many Traders disappear and are never heard from again? Many of those, too, took down their business with them, or vanished because the business was already in trouble.
How was that possible? The Andrahars were best Traders in Miran. Iztho signed her on, which meant he had to see a bright future for the business.
"What . . . what are you going to do?" More importantly, what did it mean for her, but she was too scared to ask that question.
"On a most immediate level, we need to find money to pay a major debt. On top of everything else, we found that our accounts are in a mess, and that our accountant—the one who was just here—has been fudging the books. I don't know how or why it happened, but we need to pay our main creditor, the Hedron Mines." He waved his hand at the books. "That's what I'm doing here. Trying to find two hundred thousand credits to pay that account so that we don't slip further in trouble while we wait for the court case to get the suspension lifted."