Satrine folded up the letter and held it to the oil lamp until it caught flame, and then dropped it in the can where Minox dumped his tobacco ashes.
Nothing else to do with a letter like that. Nothing else to do but go about her day like it was any other.
The household was in order. Every room was in pristine condition, ready for Mister Fenmere to return. The cooks were getting luncheon together—simple and tasteful, cold sandwiches and tea. Perfect for this hot weather.
Everything would be perfect, were it not for the guests waiting for Mister Fenmere in the sitting room.
Corman waited in the outer garden, not wanting to share air with the visitors. The carriage approached the household, coming to a stop while the gates closed behind it. The driver hopped down and opened up the back.
“Corman!” Mister Fenmere said jovially as he stepped out. His skin was bronzed, and he looked rested, even joyful. “You missed a lovely summer on the coast.”
“I’m sure I did,” Corman said. Gerrick came out behind Mister Fenmere, similarly colored but looking far more worn out.
“I thought we left the heat behind in Yinara,” he said. “It’s sweltering.”
“It’s been this way all summer,” Corman said. “Quite unpleasant.”
“Hmm,” Fenmere said. “I’ve heard there’s been quite a bit of unpleasant over the summer.”
“I won’t bore you with details now, sir, though there are several,” Corman said. “I presume you are both hungry—”
“And hot,” Gerrick said, fanning his shirt open.
“I’ve prepared for all that, however—”
Fenmere raised an eyebrow. “Something urgent?”
“I would say no, certainly not that required your immediate attention, but I’ve not been entirely given that option.”
Fenmere nodded somberly. He knew there were few people who would be able to make Corman say that.
“He’s already here?” Fenmere asked.
“Dejri Adfezh,” Corman said. “And he’s in an—intense state.”
“Well, that’s nothing new for him,” Fenmere said.
“He’s with . . . escort.”
“Armed?”
“Quite.”
Fenmere grunted. “It’s his way. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”
Corman sighed. He wished he could feel as confident as Mister Fenmere did about these matters. He went up the front steps to open the door into the house.
“We’ll have to deal with this before we luncheon, I suppose,” Fenmere said. “It’ll keep?”
“Yes, sir,” Corman said. “I planned it that way.”
That was the necessity of the situation. Almost anyone else, they would have invited them to sit down to eat with them. Even the Firewings, despite the fact that Corman couldn’t stand to watch mages eat.
But one couldn’t do that with Poasians. They were very peculiar about eating, especially in front of other people, or having others eat in front of them. They saw that as obscene vulgarity, on par with using the water closet in mixed company.
Adfezh and the other Poasians had to be kept happy. And keeping Poasians happy was a tightwire walk like nothing else Corman knew.
“Sitting room?” Fenmere asked.
“Indeed.”
“And you’ve—”
“Our men are in position to come in at a signal from any of us.”
“Good, good.” Fenmere took a handkerchief out of Corman’s coat pocket and blotted the sweat on his face, and then brushed off his suit for any dust or dirt. Satisfied, he strode into the sitting room, Corman and Gerrick matching pace behind him.
The Poasians were all standing when they entered. Three of them—all sickly pale with thick black hair, dressed all in black. Corman had only had limited interaction with any of the Poasians, and he had yet to discern the minute differences in clothing style to determine rank or social standing.
That said, the two men flanking Adfezh were both sporting long convex Poasian blades at their hips, wearing heavy leather coats. Soldiers, mercenaries, some type of Poasian knight, Corman couldn’t say. It didn’t matter. Both men looked like the type who could remove someone’s head from their neck in a moment, and not have the slightest concern about it.
Adfezh was a smaller, thinner man, his black hair having taken on some wisps of gray at the temples.
“Willem Fenmere,” he said coldly as they entered. “We have been waiting overlong.”
“Khiere pul, Adfezh,” Fenmere said cordially. “I could not come any sooner. I was out of the city until today.”
“I have little time to prattle,” Adfezh said. “Arrangements need to be made for alterations.”
“Alterations?” Fenmere said, expression turning dark. He took his customary chair, though Adfezh and the other Poasians stayed standing. “What exactly is being altered?”
“Do not presume to treat me as a fool. I am well aware of your attempts to manufacture your own version of the effitte.”
“Now how could I do that? The effitssa only grows in the Napolic Islands.”
“I am also aware of the effitssa hothouses you have built, with limited success.” The man managed to say the name of the plant with not only a distinctly different pronunciation of the “f” and “s” sounds, but with a hint of genuine revulsion in how Fenmere had said it.
This was the way with the Poasians. They weren’t fazed by duplicity, but pronounce a word incorrectly, and they might just walk out on the business completely.
“It has been a challenge, certainly,” Fenmere said lightly. “So how does that bring us to this meeting today?”
“I’m here to tell you that you do not need to bother.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a small vial, placing it on the table by Fenmere. Fenmere picked up the vial and held it up to the light. It was filled with a lavender powder.
“What am I looking at?”
“The result of our continued diligence in refining the resin of the effitssa. This is the efhân.”
“Efhân?” Fenmere said. He clearly took care to match Adfezh’s accent and pitch in pronouncing the word. “I presume it’s more potent?”
“What you are holding is equivalent to—” He took a moment and consulted one of his men in their native tongue. “To nearly a gallon of effitte.”
“A what?” Fenmere jumped out of his chair. The bodyguards, just outside the other door, started to move. On a signal from Fenmere, Corman motioned for them stay in place.
“Needless to say, in this form it will be far easier to bring in quantities of far greater equivalence. You will be able to charge more for much less. This is beneficial to us all.”
Fenmere opened up the vial and cautiously sniffed at it. “You’ve tested it, and you’re satisfied with these claims?”
“I would never say such things if I was not.”
“Very well,” Fenmere said. “So you want to ship this instead of the effitte. It’s going to take a bit of work to shift the market, for the customers to accept the new product. You understand that?”
“We are confident in your ability to make the sales to meet our needs,” Adfezh said. “Which brings us to the next point.”
“Our payments have been on time,” Fenmere said.
“Indeed they have, and we are appreciative. However, this refinement process was the result of much effort and development . . .”
“More money? Really?”
“If you are not interested in continuing our arrangement, I’m certain there are competitors here who would find it lucrative.”
“You won’t find anyone matching my resources.”
“Which is why we still find you useful,” Adfezh said. “You have proven the most efficient in receiving the effitte and other goods. And regarding other goods, you’ll be pleased to know—
”
“I don’t want the rest of the Blue Hand’s . . . material,” Fenmere said sharply. “Gerrick, we did make that clear. We weren’t interested, yes?”
“Certainly, we had canceled those requests,” Gerrick said. “Mister Adfezh, I know you received those letters, as you had acknowledged other points.”
Adfezh’s jaw tightened, and he held out his hand as if he were directing his men not to murder everyone. Perhaps that was to be their next action, but Corman couldn’t tell.
“Your cancellations are of no moment,” Adfezh said coldly. “My associates have been quite diligent in crafting what was requested, and that work will be completed, the materials will come to Maradaine, and we will receive our recompense. What you do with it once it arrives is not my concern.”
“No, I want nothing to do with—”
“Your cancellations are of no moment,” Adfezh said again. “I must withdraw before I am sickened further by this engagement. The shipments of the efhân will commence shortly, so use that vial to determine what you must in terms of market, dosage, and pricing. I will send documents with further information for you all.”
He walked out of the sitting room, his men in tow, heading right for the front door.
“Well,” Gerrick said, “You can’t say that Poasians waste time with pleasantries.”
Mister Fenmere was holding up the vial, staring at the violet powder.
“Sir?” Corman asked. “What do you think of this?”
He tossed the vial up and caught it in his fist. “I think we need to get this to Jads straight away. The wind shifts, and we set our sails to match.”
He smiled, handing the vial to Corman. “Besides, if Adfezh is telling something even remotely close to the truth, then everything is going to change. We must make sure we are the ones with our boots on when it comes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Corman,” Fenmere said quietly. He held up the copy of the South Maradaine Gazette with the frustratingly inaccurate headline. “Is this our good fortune?”
“It is not, sir,” Corman said. “I am given to understand that Mister Bell—operating on his own volition—contracted someone to pretend to be the Thorn to murder the Red Rabbits and confound the Constabulary.”
“Bell?” He mused for a moment. “I’m pleasantly surprised. He’ll need to be sanctioned, of course, but I won’t deny that I’m impressed he had such a play in him.”
“This play backfired. His man was the one arrested. Bell drew the attention of the Rose Street Princes. Or, at least, one of them.”
“Hmmm. You’ve taken steps?”
“Our displeasure is known.”
“Good. Though I heard you took your own initiative. Two thousand crowns for the Thorn’s head?”
“I was responding to the situation on the ground, sir. Mostly to inspire men like Smiley and Benny to not be complacent. Some men need the apple instead of the whip.”
“Of course, and it’s fine,” Fenmere said. “Though I’m glad it didn’t really result in anything, other than to whet their appetite. If the efhân proves to be what it’s claimed to be, we will have the means to put a price on the Thorn’s head that would make even his own mother go after him.”
Veranix had no responsibilities for the Closing Ceremonies. The whole event was subdued, far from the original plan that Madam Castilane had mapped out. Rather than a festive celebration, it was a solemn affair. Five people died in what was called The Tetchball Riot, including Pinter from the squad. Several dozen more were injured. The closing ceremony was transformed into a memorial on the south lawn, involving string quintets and candle-lighting, and a few poems recited by Vellia Sansar and the rest of the Ovation Squad.
The campus gossip had quickly spread about what had happened. The Pirrell tetchball squad had been indicted in using the drug to cheat. The Pirrell players quickly confessed and testified that Hence was the source of the drug. How and why Hence had done that had been fodder for stories and rumors, each one more wild than the next.
“The funny thing is,” Delmin had said the night before, “he wasn’t really pretending to be you, I don’t think. He had a bow because he was an archer, and he wore a crimson cloak because he made his Hunter outfit out of a Pirrell dress uniform. Crimson and white.”
None of the stories explained why he had been hunting the Deadly Birds. Of course, most of the campus had no idea about that part of it. As far as any of the stories went, Emilia Quope was an exceptional and promising student and athlete from RCM, and all mourned her as his victim. After the fact, people had remembered Hence constantly watching Emilia, staring after her. Veranix even remembered the first night, there had been a creepy Pirrell student watching her. It had probably been Hence, but he didn’t trust his memory enough to say for certain.
The last days of the games had continued, though with far less enthusiasm. There was a final game in the tetchball matches, between U of M and the Acorian Conservatory. The U of M squad took the field with only seven players, and the Acorians were in their right to demand a forfeit. Instead, the Acorians had decided to play a gentleman’s game, and fielded only seven as well. The Conservatory won, nineteen to seventeen, but they had to play hard to earn that win.
“It was better that way,” Tosler had said. “I’d rather lose a real game than have them not play us out of pity.”
Tosler didn’t speak much of Pinter, or of Blute—who was alive but hadn’t woken up.
Veranix watched the ceremonies from a distance, huddled with Jiarna, Phadre, Kaiana, and Delmin under one of the trees. Most of them were watching the ceremony, but Jiarna was stewing over a copy of the South Maradaine Gazette.
“Thorn captured! This is sewage. Not only that this is filled with lies, but after everything we did, this Lieutenant Benvin gets the credit and crows about it!”
“Let it be,” Veranix said.
“I almost wish we didn’t have to go next week,” Jiarna said wistfully. “I am going to miss this.”
“You mean the University?” Kaiana asked.
“Well, that, of course. Though Trenn will be lovely in that regard.”
“She’s talking about the adventure,” Phadre said.
“Yes, exactly,” Jiarna said.
“I could stand a little less mortal peril,” Phadre said.
“A little less?” Delmin asked.
“You have to admit, it does get the blood up, darling,” Jiarna said. “And Kaiana told me you took to it quite well.”
“Did she?” Phadre asked, surprised. “You did?”
Kaiana teasingly put her hands up in a ring-boxing pose. “Yield to your betters.”
“I am quite disappointed that I did not get to see that,” Jiarna said. She looked over to Veranix. “And you, brooding over there.”
“Am I brooding?” Veranix asked. “I thought I was matching the mood of the ceremony.”
“Yes, which is dismal.”
“People died,” Veranix said.
“But not as many as might have, thanks to your actions. The numbers lean in your favor, Veranix.” She placed a tender hand on his cheek. “Promise you are going to write to us at Trenn. I will need to know that you haven’t gotten yourself killed without our assistance.”
“Yes,” Veranix said. “Though I don’t think I’ll have much to write about.”
The string quintet started up a new strain, and it drew their attention back to the ceremony for a few minutes.
Kaiana moved close to him, curiosity in her eyes. She kept her voice low to not disturb the other three. “Are you going to be all right?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean . . . I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this tired before. I just wonder—”
“If I’m thinking about stopping?” Veranix asked.
She nodded. “Which I would understand.
This has been—harrowing. For all of us.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not thinking about it,” he said. She smiled, breathing out a sigh of relief. He knew she would have accepted it if he stopped, but she still believed in what he was doing, that it needed to be done.
He laughed a little. “Well, that’s not true, I thought about it. But I also thought about everyone hurt by Fenmere, everyone hurt or killed so I could keep going. All of you who have trusted and helped me.” He had already had another conversation like this with Reverend Pemmick. Pemmick didn’t encourage him to continue, but his counsel had solidified Veranix’s feelings on the matter. “There’s still a job to do. I’m not going to quit until it’s done.”
“Good afternoon, Mister Calbert.”
Veranix turned to see Inspector Welling standing next to him. He had no idea how long he had been standing there.
“Inspector,” Veranix said cautiously. “Here to see the closing ceremonies?”
“No, Mister Calbert. I came to speak to you. Can we step away?”
“Why?”
“Mister Calbert,” Welling said, gesturing to his clothing. “I am not wearing my inspector’s vest, nor do I have arms or irons. I’m not here in any official capacity.” Indeed, he was wearing a plain clasped shirt and brown slacks. His left hand was still gloved, but beyond that, he was dressed like any other man on the street. The only thing uncommon about his appearance was the heavy leather satchel hanging on his shoulder.
“This way,” Veranix said. He walked away from the group, noting that his friends all looked at him with concern. Especially Kaiana. He gave them a signal not to worry.
At worst, he could get away from an unarmed inspector, even Welling.
He led Welling to a spot near the edge of the lawn, from which he could see the carriage house. If he needed to, he could run to it, get his gear.
“So, Inspector, you came to speak to me,” he said.
Welling watched him intently for a moment. “I am not here as an inspector.”
“Mister Welling, then.”
“Yes, I think that’s best.” He gritted his teeth, eyes to the ground for a moment. “Mister Calbert, I am quite aware of the fact that you are the Thorn.”
The Imposters of Aventil Page 38