“I saw that yesterday. I think it looks nice. It was so ugly when it was in one piece.”
Weaver shrugged. “I haven’t seen it; too busy trying to keep the city from falling apart. You wanted the old times back and here they are.”
“We have this conversation every day, Crit. You wanted the old times back. I was quite happy with the new times, if you remember.”
“No, you just thought you were.” Weaver leaned forward and gripped Rawk’s arm. “I’ve known you too long, Rawk. We are too close for you to get away with that lie.”
Rawk wasn’t going to argue with him about it. He didn’t have the energy and it wasn’t worth it anyway. And it was an argument he probably couldn’t win, no matter how right he was. He moved his arm and Weaver withdrew his hand.
“And who’s your lady friend?” Weaver turned the paper over to the back page. “She looks nice.”
Rawk examined the picture. It showed Maris clinging to him in the market like a damsel he’d just rescued. The picture was stunning; they’d even put in the gaudy earrings. It was almost perfect. Rawk couldn’t work out how they did it. A few weeks ago he’d marveled at how the dwarves managed to write out thousands of the newspapers in just a few hours, and in such unbelievably neat writing. But now they were adding pictures as well? It might not have been magic, but it was close, whatever it was.
“What’s her name?” Weaver asked.
Rawk glanced up and found the prince staring at him.
The meals arrived at that moment and the woman almost dropped the plates. A splash of bright green sauce hit the table in front of Weaver. He surged to his feet. “Watch it.”
The woman was a fermi; the Prince towered over her and she cowered back, plates titling dangerously.
Rawk cleared his throat. “Crit, don’t worry yourself about it.” The prince kept staring at the woman. Rawk laid a hand on his arm. “Crit,” he said again, emphasizing the word, reminding Weaver he was still supposed to be under-cover. “Don’t concern yourself. I’ll have a talk to the manager after we finish our lunch.” Rawk motioned to the woman, telling her to leave. She deposited the plates and did just that, darting away through the crowd.
Weaver collected himself. He grunted and sat back down, motioning to the newspaper as if nothing had happened. “She looks nice.”
“She is. Her name is Maris. It says it right here. And she works at the Veteran’s Club— it says that, too. For once the newspaper got all the information right.”
Rawk pulled his stew closer and looked at the plate of fruit suspiciously. After a moment he took out his knife and fork, spent a moment polishing the bone handles, then started on the stew.
Weaver picked at his food. Normally he would have been wolfing it down almost before the plate had hit the table. “You’ve seen her a few times, haven’t you?”
“A couple. Why, is it a problem?”
Weaver laughed. “Of course not. It’s just, you would never have done something like that in the old days.”
“You’re right, I wouldn’t. But I keep telling you, the good old days have gone and aren’t coming back.”
“So you say.” The prince produced a scroll case from the floor near his feet and slapped it on the table. “And in related news, you are now the proud owner of an apartment on Terring Road.”
“I am?”
“Yes. It was Galad’s. You said you’d take it if nobody else turned up to claim it. Remember?”
“Oh, right. Of course.”
“Good. And you now owe me twenty thousand ithel.”
“Twenty thousand?”
“It’s a nice spot; you can see the bay. Or the canal.” He waved a hand. “I’m not actually sure what you can see but that was how much Galad owed.”
Rawk sighed. “I’m sure you rounded up and added some administration fees. Anyway, how much do you owe me for all the exots I’ve been killing?”
Weaver shrugged. “I think it’s about six thousand.”
“Well, just keep everything until I’ve paid it off.”
“Very well.” Weaver sat back in his chair, tapping his wooden spoon on the edge of the table. “Are you going to move in?”
Rawk shrugged. “I don’t think so. I’m comfortable at the Rest.”
“See, you aren’t ready to grow up yet. You’re still yearning for the past.”
“I am not.”
“And speaking of real estate, do you know who owns the Tapalar mansion?”
Rawk looked up, fork halfway to his mouth. “What? Why would I know that?”
“Well, you were... friends with Lady Tapalar at the end.”
“Yes. So? Bree had lots of friends.”
“Well, whoever owns Keeto Alata owns the mansion. I assumed that was because you introduced Lady Tapalar and Yardi in some way.”
“So you already know who owns it then. What’s the problem?”
“Keeto Alata is a foreign investment company that’s drowning in layers of secrets and I’m years away from getting to the bottom of it. Yardi isn’t telling me anything.”
“She wouldn’t be where she is today if she went around giving out secrets. Why do you want to know, anyway?”
“The neighbors are complaining. It’s in the best part of the city but it’s falling apart. It’s bringing down the price of real estate.”
“And you want it fixed up?”
“Yes. Or I’ll buy it and fix it myself. I might just take it soon. The company pays their taxes and everything but... I’m the prince, I should be able to just make up the rules if I like.”
Rawk swallowed and gave a small nod. “You probably don’t want to do that, unless you want to scare investors and companies out of Katamood.”
“Yes. Unless that.”
“Well, just give the message and the threat to Yardi and she can pass it on if she wants.”
“Maybe I will.” He gave a decisive nod. “I will. I’ll write something up as soon as I get back to the palace.”
“You will?”
“Well, me or a secretary.” He waved his hand. “It doesn’t matter.”
When Weaver left, Rawk sat quietly, crunching on an apple. He picked up the paper and turned the page. There was news about the canal with quotes from workers and residents living nearby. Twenty yards to go, apparently. Just a couple of weeks. And there were riots south of the river and some gossip about Weaver and visiting ships. There was the news that Edwin Dan Beketh, owner of Laka Enterprises, had negotiated the rights to the Melaworth contracts with Keeto Alata.
And on the last page was the picture of Rawk and Maris. He’d spent 18 years trying not to think about Bree, and today it was even harder than usual.
Rawk folded the paper and left it on the table. He needed to go and talk to Yardi. But there was a crowd out the front that he had to deal with first. Such gatherings were less frequent these days, he had to admit, probably because there were so many Heroes and so many stories they could tell. It didn’t make them any less annoying.
He stopped on the top step. “Hello. It’s a bit full in there at the moment,” he winced in pain as he motioned back into the common room. “I don’t think you’ll all fit.”
The crowd looked at Rawk for a moment, as if he had gone mad. Then they all started talking at once and a hail of walnuts, each tied with a ribbon, clattered to the floor around his feet.
Eventually, there was a slight pause in the bombardment.
“Have you ever seen an exot like that one this morning, Rawk?”
“How many have you killed this week?”
Rawk rubbed at his eyes. He couldn’t think. He went slowly down the stairs and headed for the offices of Keeto Alata. Inevitably, the crowd followed.
The keenest of them made it a long way down the hill but by the time he reached the main warehouse and climbed the stairs to the office, he was on his own. Hurno looked like he might have been happier dealing with the crowd.
Rawk looked down at the young receptionist. After the walk
he didn’t even have the energy for a smile. And he didn’t have the energy for any more arguing. “I’m a giant amongst men, Hurno[HG2], remember? The last great Hero. You don’t keep me waiting.”
Hurno looked like he was about to panic. “Yardi did say that, last time you were here, I know. But she also told me that she was not to be disturbed.”
Holding back a sigh, Rawk limped around the end of the desk and went to the door of Yardi’s office. For a moment it looked like Hurno was going to stop him, but the lad thought better of it. Rawk wasn’t sure who would have won that battle. Beyond the door, Yardi was sitting with her feet on the desk and a glass of brandy in her hand.
“Hurno said you were working.” Rawk said when the door was closed. “Is this what I pay you for?”
“I was much working. I just this second finished reading a contract and was celebrating.” The desk was completely clean. No papers, files or anything that resembled work. Yardi looked around seemed to realize that as well. “Actually, I am still working; this brandy was the subject of the contract.”
“Is it any good?”
She held out the glass to him but he waved it away.
“I wouldn’t know good brandy from horse piss, you know that.”
Yardi shrugged. “More for me.”
“As ever.” Rawk knew that Yardi didn’t look, or sound like a brilliant businesswoman. She looked like someone who worked on the docks and had somehow found some decent clothes. And she sometimes sounded like she couldn’t put together a coherent sentence. The former was probably because she had started out on the docks, and the latter was because she knew several languages and sometimes switched grammar and syntax between them. But she had started managing Keeto Alata when it was little more than a warehouse and a single contract and had built it into one of the biggest trading companies in the world. Rawk trusted her with everything he had, and if she wanted to buy a boatload of brandy for herself she was welcome to it.
Slumping down into the room’s only other chair, Rawk just sat for a moment and looked around. “The plants haven’t died yet.” The smell of them filled the air, hiding the stench of the city.
“Of course not. I look after them.”
“Don’t plants need sunlight?” He decided that he actually didn’t mind the plants, though having them inside, growing in containers, still seemed a bit strange.
“Forests have ground cover, don’t they?”
“Well, yes.”
“Right. Different plants need different amounts of light. Some love shade. Like these ones.”
“What if you want some that like lots of sun?”
Yardi sighed.
“Do any of them have fruit? My healer says I need to eat lots of fruit.”
“No.”
“You should get some.” His whole body still felt a bit numb, though on the plus side, that meant his knee and shoulder and arm all ached a bit less than usual. He was starting to wonder just how much fruit he was actually supposed to eat.
Yardi sighed again. “You been here twice in a month now, Rawk. I think it’s getting to be a bit much.”
“I’m retired, you know. I’ve got lots of spare time on my hands.”
“You not retired.”
Rawk sighed too. “I have actually. But Weaver and the exots disagreed, so here I am.”
“Why are you here?”
“Weaver will be sending a message down later. He wants the Tapalar mansion fixed up.” He made a face. “Actually, he wants it for himself for some reason, but isn’t brave enough to just take it.”
Yardi opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out an envelope. When she threw it down in the table Rawk could see Weaver’s red seal on the back.
“Already?”
“It arrived just a minute ago.”
“I only spoke to him at lunch time.”
“When Weaver wants something, he goes it. You know that.”
“Well, he can’t have it.”
“He can’t?”
“No. Fix it up.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Does it matter?”
“You could live there.”
Rawk gave a grunt of laughter. “A lot of things would have to change before that happened.”
“How is Maris?”
Rawk looked up at Yardi. For a moment he thought she’d been spying on him, but she’d probably just been reading the newspapers. “She’s fine.”
“Fine?”
“Are you asking how Maris is or how the relationship is?”
Yardi pursed her lips.
“I’ve only seen her three times.” Rawk looked away. “The relationship is fine too.”
The thought that Maris could replace Lady Tapala was ridiculous. He’d once said that Adalee Dan Beketh was a gaudy trinket and Maris was a flower. But compared to them, Bree was a garden with manicured lawns and flowerbeds in one section and wild dark woods in another. She was a whole year of sunlight and snow, thunderstorms and cool breezes compared to their single summer day.
“Fix up the house,” Rawk said. “Start tomorrow. Get it back to how it used to be.”
“The furniture too?”
“No, leave it empty.” Empty seemed suitable. “I’ll need to send Travis up there tomorrow to get some stuff.”
“I may not be able to get anyone on site until the afternoon. And it won’t be actual laborers. Just inspectors and the like.”
“No, send a couple of teams to start clearing stuff out as well. I’ll send Travis after lunch.”
“Very well.”
Rawk waved at the bottle. “Give me some of that brandy.”
Yardi pulled a second glass from her drawer and poured in a splash. Rawk sniffed it and winced. He took a sip and winced some more. It still tasted horrible. Yardi laughed and downed her own glass.
“So, this brandy is going to make us lots of money?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Keep the good work then.” He put the glass down without finishing the drink. “Now, I’ve got to go and do something that doesn’t involve drinking brandy.”
-O-
Rawk paused for a moment to rest and the priest was on him like a stray dog on a chicken bone.
“Do you walk with the Great Path, Rawk? Do you listen when he calls to you?”
He would rather listen to Path than crazy priests but he had never heard anything from the god. He heard something from priests every few days and none of it was very interesting.
“Path is sending exots to challenge our faith. Will you pass the test?”
Rawk shook his head and grunted. “Maybe the exots are coming because Path has forsaken us,” he said. “Did you consider that? Is Path really the type of god who would let innocents die?”
The priest looked shocked that anyone, especially Rawk, who was normally an inoffensive target, would ever think such a thing. The man was lost for words and was reduced to doing nothing more than raising his two fingers in the salute of Path as Rawk climbed the stairs of the Veterans’ Club, hauling himself up with his hand on the rail.
Inside, Barin waited. He still, somehow, managed to look serious in his ridiculous clothes. He grinned and gave a nod of greeting when he saw Rawk. “Maris has already left for the day.”
“I know. I’m coming to see a show.” But it wasn’t really a show, it was the show, and Barin would know perfectly well which show that was.
“Grint and Celeste won’t be on stage for quite a while yet.”
“I know. I thought I’d get some dinner first.”
“Well, I think you’ve beaten the rush.”
Rawk nodded and made his way through into the hallway beyond the big man. The mural painted on the wall still unsettled him but he made himself look at it. The mud and fear and death. Those things weren’t mentioned when people spoke about ‘the good old days.’ It was all sunshine and beautiful women in those tales. Some times the beautiful women were even in the sunshine. But the mural was real. I
t was big and ugly, with moments of beauty. It was wild and it was confusing, even the bits that were beautiful. And it was right there, in your face, and there was nothing you could do about it.
Sighing, Rawk kept moving and turned into the refectory. There was hardly anyone there. A couple of old grizzled soldiers stirred the remains of their stew in one corner. There was a cacophony of Heroes by the big doors out onto the patio. They couldn’t help themselves, demanding attention, even though they were just eating dinner. And at another table was... Thok. He should have remembered straight away for the man in question was hard to miss. He was as big as a bear and looked like he’d have trouble putting his shoes on the right feet in the mornings but, as Yardi had already reminded him, looks could be deceiving.
Thok sat alone, book open beside his bowl.
Rawk collected some chicken stew of his own, then an apple— anti oxi-thingies— waved away the cutlery and went to join him.
“Rawk, how are you?”
“I’m numb all over, except for the bits that actually hurt. But most of that will go away. The main problem is, I’m old,” Rawk said. “Do you mind if I sit.”
“Not at all. You aren’t that old.”
“I’m way past old.” Rawk sat down with a groan, just to prove his point. “I should have retired years ago.”
“You’re still one of the best.”
“Yes. But that doesn’t really address the issue, does it?”
Thok smiled. “You could take up debating instead. You seem to have the head for it.”
Rawk smiled. “Could you imagine? I’d get frustrated and cut someone’s head off.” Rawk pulled his spoon from his pouch and started to eat.
“I’ve been wondering why you carry your own cutlery.”
Rawk thought of giving the usual story about poison but his companion would not have fallen for it. “The knives are generally blunt and the idea of a timber spoon in my mouth makes my skin crawl. The feel of it, not to mention the fact that timber is porous; I don’t imagine places like this spend too much time washing stuff.”
A History of Magic Page 7