Sword of Fire and Sea tck-1

by Erin Hoffman

  They stepped into the morning sunlight under a clear sky that gave credence to their enlivened spirits. Ariadel insisted that they detour through the west end market before making their way to the hospital-Ruby should be feeling well enough for a more substantial breakfast than the nutritious but flavorless fare insisted upon by the healers.

  Val Harlon's famous west end market was a riot of colors, sounds, and aromas. Fruit vendors plied passersby with sliced delicacies in an impossible array of colors, while bakers and tenders of traveling carts of meat pies needed to rely only on the wafting rich scents of freshly baked bread and savory sauces that drew custom straight to them.

  One particularly busy purveyor of mushroom and venison pastries tempted them, but they resisted, gathering up a modest basket of cinnamon buns, white melon, royal tangerines, and fresh kava sealed hot in a porcelain jar. Vidarian, who had sampled kava from the far southern continent alongside the strange kava-strength teas of the Qui Empire, had to admit that Val Harlon's distinct variety of the peppery and potent kava bark was among the best in the world, smooth and palatable to even the most finicky of connoisseurs.

  While they were haggling over a tiny burlap sack of cinnamon sugar, an ornate carriage pulled by a huge black gelding rattled over the cobbles alongside them. The horse caught Vidarian's attention first: he was huge, and had a faint iridescence to his coat and a canniness of eye that brought to mind the winged steeds of the Alorean Sky Knights, protectors of the emperor. Surely no mere merchant, however wealthy, could boast an animal descended from that rare and coveted lineage, but the likeness was striking.

  An elaborately coiffed head appeared from the window of the carriage, and as soon as Ariadel had handed over a pair of coins for the sugar, a slim white hand followed it and beckoned them closer. “Sir, madam, if I may have a moment?”

  Vidarian and Ariadel approached the carriage cautiously. Carts and wheelbarrows flowed around it, their operators grumbling under their breath but none daring to challenge the vehicle that blocked their way. Val Harloners were rarely so given to politeness, and it prickled the back of Vidarian's neck to see it.

  The woman inside the carriage, her grey eyes hawk-sharp, was dressed to match both carriage and coiffure, in expensive black brocade with silver piping. Her precise smile conveyed her relief at speaking equal-to-equal in the market's morass of banality. “Lord Tesseract,” she began, and was on to the next before Vidarian could correct her, “I am Oneira Ehrenfar. I represent the Fourth Mercantile, and speak also on behalf of the greater Alorean Greater Import Company. The senior partner in Val Harlon wishes to extend an invitation to you both,” she nodded to Ariadel, and Vidarian didn't like the superior way she assumed Vidarian's prominence between the two of them.

  Fourth Mercantile. Alorean Greater Imports. Vidarian flexed his diplomatic muscles, attempting to hide his distaste. “Certainly the desires of such a friend to the empire are of great interest to us,” he said, pitching his tone carefully flat to convey his own superiority, even as he hated doing so, “and we would be glad to arrange a meeting at the partner's convenient time.”

  “Now, actually, is quite his convenience.” Her eyes lost no sharpness, making no concession for the abruptness of the request-which should have been embarrassing. Dangerous territory.

  Vidarian worked again to stifle his irritation. “We are just now en route to visit a good friend in hospital. Surely the Company's business is not so desperately urgent?”

  “All business is urgent,” Oneira replied, “the Company's more so, for those who make real decisions, as I'm sure you understand, Lord Tesseract. Your friend, ‘Queen’ Roana,” her mild disgust at Ruby's title danced a careful edge of offense, “surely requires her rest. I can arrange to deliver your gifts, and perhaps you could call on her this afternoon, after our conversation? The senior partner is a busy man.”

  Even without his ship-as the Company surely knew-Vidarian had too many friends and allies at the mercy of the Company's controls over ports and harbors to risk their ire unnecessarily.

  “We will be glad to take you up on your kind offer, then.” He sighed.

  “Excellent,” Oneira said, and rapped on the roof of the carriage. When a footman scrambled down the polished brass ladder at the aft side of the vehicle, she waved him to take the basket from Vidarian and gave instructions on where to take it, including the building and room where Ruby was housed, without prompting. She smiled, looking down into the basket, adding, “and do pick up a few delicacies on our behalf. Salted morels, marmalade, and olive tapenade from Bertram's.” Vidarian calculated as the footman bowed and took his leave; the quality and price of the additions were both a show of power (as well a reprimand of Vidarian's taste in gifts, if he wanted one) and a bribe. He fumed behind the bared teeth of a gracious smile, and they mounted up at her invitation into the carriage.

  The inside of the carriage was as ornate as its exterior, gleaming with oiled leather and polished brass. Another rap on the roof from their erstwhile hostess, and they were on their way. Being beholden to wheels, their conveyance was no smooth sail, but some mechanism involving oiled springs made it the gentlest carriage ride Vidarian had ever experienced.

  He was unsurprised when they turned toward Val Harlon's wealthiest Point Ista district, but he did lift an eyebrow when they turned up a long drive flanked by mounted guards. Three more checkpoints were between them and their destination, as it turned out; any escape would be with their host's cooperation, it would seem.

  They stepped down from the carriage onto tightly fitted paving stones that marked a circle around exquisitely manicured gardens of perfectly clipped green and blue grass. The manor itself was, for its splendor, certainly over a century old, of the antique colonnaded type, but upgraded with modern brass lanterns and window-fittings. When they were shown into the foyer, Vidarian took a deep breath, expecting a long wait, but their abductor led them directly up an imposing grand staircase of white marble.

  At the end of a long carpeted hallway at the top of the stairs was a heavily carved pair of mahogany doors attended by precisely uniformed guards in red wool and glittering brass buttons. The polish hid a functional edge-a familiar wear on chain-wrapped sword hilts, coats cut for movement as well as aesthetic, precise-fit vambraces. The guards recognized Oneira and opened the door for her immediately; Vidarian moved her status upward in his loose estimate.

  The senior partner sat behind a massive desk flanked by ceiling-high windows and velvet curtains all intended to cast both light and awe upon whomever entered through the mahogany doors. Bright eastern sunlight cast the partner as a silhouette, but as their eyes adjusted, he revealed himself to be eerily identical to the few other Alorean Import partners Vidarian had ever met. Cosmetic differences aside-he had black hair and blue eyes, unlike the others-all of the so-called merchant princes of the Company had the same uncanny features, flawless and vibrant youth with none of its innocence, purchased duly from those healers who cared more for coin than mending. There was no telling how old this particular company man was, though to achieve the rank of senior partner his years numbered almost certainly over three hundred.

  And whatever their status, they didn't rate the partner standing up to greet them. Oneira waved them to a pair of brocade-cushioned chairs worked with gold leaf where they weren't covered with imported silk. And possibly, Vidarian thought sourly, beneath where they were. He walked Ariadel to her seat and bowed over her hand when she was seated, brushing his lips across her fingers with just enough impropriety to tease a disapproving frown out of their host. Be damned if he wasn't going to get some satisfaction out of this.

  “So,” he said as he took his seat. “What can we do for you, partner…?”

  “Senior Partner Justinian Veritas, overseer of the Fourth Mercantile and the Greater Alorean Import Company's voice in Val Harlon,” Oneira said, standing at the man's shoulder.

  Justinian smiled thinly. “We thank you for making it here on such short notice. On
eira is my second, and the future representative of the Company here in Val Harlon.”

  “You know that will never happen,” Ariadel addressed their escort for the first time, and she stiffened ever so slightly. “They need you here because of the power of the priestesshoods, but any partner naming a woman as his heir would be committing political suicide. And none of the partners are especially interested in dying.”

  “As I'm sure you understand, Mr. Rulorat,” Justinian said, addressing Vidarian as if Ariadel had not spoken, certainly knowing how it caused Vidarian's hands to clench at his sides, “our dealings can be pleasant or unpleasant, and I will ultimately leave the choice between up to you.” Justinian folded his hands together and rested his elbows on the desk. His gaze was sharp with intelligence but carefully casual. “To be quite honest, I think the Company's interest in you is ill considered at best. But if you truly know our ways as well as you'd have my junior colleague believe, you also know that my orders come from the top. I'd just as soon avoid any unpleasantness.”

  “‘Unpleasantness’ would be an interesting way of describing your company's control over ports my family has needed to survive for over a century,” Vidarian said.

  Justinian gave a small wave of his hand, somewhere between a concession and a dismissal. “We are a force across the five seas, this is true, and the responsibilities that come with such power are significant.”

  “What I meant to say was,” Vidarian consciously unclenched his hands and folded them on his lap, “I really don't have any interest in working or cooperating with you.”

  “All business,” Justinian said softly, “is in knowing the interests of your partners,” his eyes lifted, piercing blue with the light coming through the window behind him, “and of your competitors.”

  “What you call ‘competitors’ we call ‘enemies,’” Vidarian said, meeting the partner's stare unflinchingly.

  Justinian looked down first, but only to nudge a packet of paper across the desk with a slim fingertip. “I understand full well that you have no natural inclination toward us, but I also understand you to be a rational man. A businessman.”

  Vidarian reached across the desk and slid the paper packet toward himself, catching it with his other hand as it slid off the desk entirely. He opened it, but kept his eyes on Justinian, lowering them to the papers only when he could read them at a downward glance. But as his eyes passed over the words it became harder to keep his head up-and clear. As anger-and, he would admit only under duress, a bit of fear-thrilled in his veins, the storm sapphires in his waist pouch rumbled a response. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing them and himself to stillness. When he opened them, he said, “You don't have the authority to do this.”

  “Oh, we do,” Justinian said, with an almost-boredom that set Vidarian's veins to bubbling again. “You've been in the west too long, Lord Tesseract. The Company is now quite strong with the emperor, and with the imperial city. You realize, then, why I don't find your cooperation a particularly challenging objective.”

  He passed the packet to Ariadel numbly. The company, for whatever reasons known only to them, wanted to hole him up in the imperial city, far away from the sea or the gate. The princely commission for his “service” in the city would have intrigued him six months ago, but only irritated him now. And the dispatches, which by all accounts looked absolutely real, also commissioned the imperial army in enforcing his compliance if necessary. “Why bother warning me?” he asked, finally.

  “As I told you,” Justinian said, “I find this all rather unnecessary and poorly thought-out. What I do object to is any besmirching of the Company's name from your however-fruitless resistance.” He tilted his head, squinting at Vidarian. “You do intend to resist, do you not?”

  “I don't intend to cooperate with you or anyone else merely for the sake of doing so.”

  He sighed theatrically. “And I suppose you also can't be bought.”

  “Not by you.”

  “How unpleasant,” Justinian said, and took a carved geode from atop a stack of documents. He rapped hard on the desk, which echoed hollowly. One of the guards from outside opened the door. “Andrews. Please escort our guests back to the city. We've fulfilled the requests of the partners.”

  The beds at the inn were now familiar, from plush mattress and featherbed to the lavender oil that scented their sheets, and as Vidarian sank into theirs, it was the first genuine moment of comfort he'd had since that morning. The candle beside the bed flickered out-Ariadel's doing, and not by hand, something he was only beginning to become accustomed to-and she, as usual, was asleep in moments, leaving him to stare up into the darkness.

  The curtains over the room's large window hadn't been closed. He thought about getting up to draw them shut, but as he moved his arm with the thought, Ariadel shifted in her sleep, murmuring. Settling his arm again, he shifted gingerly, then shut his eyes, reaching for sleep.

  It was to no avail. The light of the stars winking through the far window should have been negligible, but it seemed to cut right through his eyelids. Aimless thoughts tumbled in his brain, worries half coherent and half not, until finally he opened his eyes again, if only to banish them. The window and its light were still there, insistent.

  Gradually, his eyes blurred, and the stars blurred with them. They drew together and began to spiral gently. He blinked, then rubbed his eyes, but the pattern persisted. Slowly, but steadily, the swirl drew itself into the shape of a woman, reclining in midair, clothed in tendrils of darkness that covered not nearly enough of her light-drawn skin. He flushed, and shook his head, but to no avail.

  “Go away,” he said finally, glancing at Ariadel out of fear of waking her. She didn't stir.

  The figure drew closer, still lying in midair. When she spoke, it was a soft voice echoing across a great distance. He fought down the flare of recognition that lit in his soul when he saw her. This was the creature that had lived in his mind for so long, it seemed, now made manifest at last. “Where do you think you are?” she asked, floating sedately. She did a lazy barrel roll in the air, her hair fanning out in a graceful arc as though it were underwater.

  Vidarian blinked. “I'm sleeping,” he said. For a split second his vision doubled dizzyingly, and he saw two realities: himself, sitting up in bed, facing the floating woman; and himself, one arm looped around Ariadel, sleeping soundly.

  “Correctamundo,” she said, rolling again until her feet were pointed toward the ground, then twisting lightly back into a standing position.

  “What are you?” he asked, and she laughed, as some part of him knew she would.

  Her face-just her face, leaving neck and all below in place-turned upside down.

  “What do you think I am?” she asked, in his voice. Hearing his own voice echoed back to him, in addition to sending a chill through his body, made him realize he'd asked his question the same way-as a statement.

  “You're the goddess of chaos.”

  “Chaos,” she flared, her head spinning back upright as she advanced on the bed, eyes inhumanly large and filled with livid white light. It was a whiteness of absence, a whiteness of between-being, a whiteness of nonexistence. Her fingers spidered over the footboard, fingertips hooked into gleaming claws. “That's what they call it,” she said softly. “I bring them balance, and they call me chaos. Chaos goddess, star hunter.” The name rang recognition again through his very core.

  “They call you retribution,” he said, fixing his eyes on her, much though his brain willed him to look away.

  “Rich men call me retribution,” she agreed. “Poor men call me justice.” Straightening, she raised her arms in front of her, hands balled into fists, halos of empty white light fluorescing around her body. Her voice dropped into an eerie, inhuman hollowness. “And what is retribution, but a return? All things,” the voice dwindled to a soft hiss, “and their antithesis.” She lifted off her feet again, the light dwindling around her, and floated toward the bed. Her right eye flashed red whil
e her left burned blue. “At the heart of all things living is a wildness, a chaos, a not-being. I am the sea and I am the fire, and we are what's in between. And you, dear Vidarian, will set me free.”

  Fear and stubbornness gripped him in iron fists that pulled apart from his center. “You don't know what I'll do.”

  “Don't I?” She leaned close, whispering as if imparting a secret. “I'm a goddess.” The word carried power, like the language of the gryphons; it was more than merely what met his ears.

  He held firm. “I've met goddesses.”

  “But not,” she whispered again, sidling close, her scent like lightning, “like me.” She pushed herself away from him, floating toward the window. “I can do bad things to you, Vidarian. Bad things. You should do what I want.”

  “I'm not afraid of you.” Strangely, he was fairly certain it was true. What more was there left to be afraid of? Should he fear her? The empire? The Alorean Import Company?

  She looked down at the bed, into the reality where Ariadel slept beside him, and smiled.

  A snarl leapt into his throat, a threat onto the tip of his lips. But she blew into his face, a cold wind that sucked the breath from his chest.

  “See you later, alligator.”

  Hands on his shoulders threw him into gasping wakefulness. Instinctively he rolled out of their grasp, blocking Ariadel's body with his own.

  “Vidarian,” Endera whispered sharply, and he swam out of sleep and into his senses. Ariadel moved underneath him, squawking groggily, and he twisted, sitting up and facing Endera.

  Her shadowed form gradually resolved from the silhouette of the Starhunter supplied by his sleep-addled brain and into the weary and worried golden eyes of the fire priestess. “I apologize for waking you,” she said, in a tone that was certainly no apology, “but you must leave the city immediately.”