Chains of Darkness, Chains of Light (The Sundered, Book 4)

by Michelle Sagara West

  “A thousand crowns? It is pretty, Waldreth, but it is merely a trinket. Surely you ask too much. The market in Sivari is not so dear.”

  “The mines of Erentil are not the equal of those to the northwest,” was the terse reply. “Only the unknowledgeable feel that the lesser price for poorer gemstones is the better deal.” There was the decided clunk of heavy glass. “My gems come from a dealer in Rennath who is not disposed to the Sivari stock.”

  A better introduction would not come again in the course of bargaining, and it looked likely that Lady Mistria, in her mauve and green house sash, was not going to close the deal she had embarked upon.

  Corfaire stepped neatly between her and the lord who was gazing through the glass. He pulled out a letter from his inner jacket pocket and waved it to catch the merchant’s attention.

  “Master Waldreth?”

  Master Waldreth’s balding head bobbed up and down in a slight acknowledgment of his name. He held out one large, stubby hand, caught the letter, and pulled it toward his chest. A pair of heavy, wired glasses was then perched upon the bridge of a wide nose, and he stared down at the words on the paper as if they made less sense than the wares in his case. His round eyes narrowed, and then widened. With a deft little flip of the hand, he reoriented the paper so that the words were right-side up.

  “Master Nostrum?” he asked, and extended a hand. “You’re earlier than I expected, but that’s all to the best. What have you brought?”

  Corfaire removed a glove and returned the jeweler’s grip firmly. “I’m not the gemsman you are,” he said as his hand was released, “but Hildy is rather good at what she does. She’s given me a list of prices for each of the items sent, and I’m afraid there are strict guidelines I’m forced to follow.”

  “Was I expecting something different?” Waldreth sighed. “At least I don’t have to deal with the old vulture herself.”

  “No. Malakar isn’t to her liking.”

  Master Waldreth spit cleanly to one side, which evoked a little snort from the lord at the case, who was listening as intently as one can when one is pretending that all proceedings are beneath one. “Vanelon.” The word was a curse.

  Corfaire smiled. “The same. But we don’t expect problems from that quarter for some time.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Never mind. Vanelon, after all, is not of the High City, regardless of its pretensions.”

  “Well then, bring the pack and come inside.” He stopped and squinted into the darkness. “These people with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine then. Bring them along.” He ruffled through his pockets, pulled out a brass key, and set about locking his cases. A sign came out from under the counter and was placed down at an odd angle.

  Erin corrected it before she followed Corfaire’s lead.

  The negotiations that followed in the long narrow room at the back of the shop were not of interest to Erin or Darin. Tiras, on the other hand, joined Corfaire and Waldreth at the table, and after a few interruptions on his part, Master Waldreth pulled out an extra eyeglass and shoved it into Tiras’ hands.

  Things were spirited, and debate replaced conversation as Erin and Darin began to drift away, looking at the tools and benches in the shop itself. Here and there, unfinished works lay beside intricate drawings and odd bits of metal. Erin had never seen the inside of a jeweler’s shop before, and she marveled as much at the process involved as she had at the cost of what was produced.

  None of the three at the table seemed to notice, and another hour passed before the proceedings wound down. Gold was exchanged, and some sort of note, so Corfaire’s pack did not end up lighter than it had been when he’d arrived.

  Master Waldreth, on the other hand, looked quite pleased with himself.

  “I’m just on for tea if I can find the cursed pot,” he said cheerily. “Would you care to join me?”

  “Not this evening, I’m afraid. We’ve other business to attend to before we leave the city.” Corfaire stretched his shoulders as he stood. “How do you get used to this infernal darkness?”

  “Same as anybody does. Doesn’t do to question the Lord of the Empire. Not even if you’re noble, and a priest to boot.” He lowered his voice a little. “Have you heard the rumors in the market?”

  “Some.” Corfaire shrugged. “Which one are you talking about?”

  “The second of the Greater Cabal.”

  “That one I’d missed. What news?”

  “Taken. By the Lord of the Empire on a nightwalk.” Waldreth shook his head. “Seems he’d done something to argue against all these dictates about the night hours. It’s enough of a lesson to give to any of us below.”

  “It is that.” Corfaire looked at Erin; she was frozen by a bench. “Lady?”

  “Yes?”

  “We leave now.”

  Her nod was terse. He walked over to where she stood and offered her his arm. The strength of her grip came as no surprise. Very slowly, he walked to the swinging door. “Shall we return to the inn?”

  Any answer she had to give died on her lips.

  As the door started to swing, it was yanked, hard, from the outside.

  Corfaire and Erin stopped short as they stared down the points of four drawn blades. They did not move. The swords were too close for it, and only one of them was armed.

  But Corfaire looked up to see house guards. They wore the orange, yellow, and black of House Sentamos.

  “Well, well, well,” the foremost of the guards said quietly. “I think we’ve found a runaway slave.”

  chapter eighteen

  “What is going on here?”

  Corfaire’s eyes did not move from where they rested. He met the eyes of a tall, wide-chested man with a scar that ran the length of his left cheek partially hidden by a thick beard. It was Yarvele, blessed with the signature of Corfaire’s personal fighting style in House Sentamos.

  “I see you finally made your rank.” Corfaire’s voice was quiet, and not even a hint of fear made itself known above the contempt he put into those words.

  Yarvele’s smile made it plain that he had no intention of dignifying a slave with a response.

  “What is going on here?” Master Waldreth forced his way to the front of the door and stopped his bulk short of impalement. He squinted at the glint of lamplight on steel, and then his frown deepened.

  “Sentamos?”

  “Indeed, Master Waldreth. We are sorry to trouble you, and will endeavor to be out of your way as quickly as possible.” He pushed his sword gently forward until the tip made an indentation in Corfaire’s plain surcoat. “Move forward slowly.”

  Corfaire released Erin’s arm and did as ordered.

  “I would hate to have to bring back only a body, but the price for it is almost as high.” The sword pushed further home, but it hadn’t the strength to cut.

  Erin watched quietly. Her fingers skirted the edge of her sleeves as she crossed her arms slowly. She had only a dagger.

  Behind her, she heard the movement of black velvet and knew that Tiras was also preparing for trouble. Still she remained motionless, almost paralyzed. Trouble was the one thing that she could not afford in Malakar. The house guards seemed intent on Corfaire; he was their quarry and their target.

  He had served well as both guide and guard. He had brought them to Malakar unharmed, seen them through the gates, and even pointed out where the temple was safest to approach. She owed him loyalty.

  But she owed others much more. He was just one man, no matter how well she knew him, if she knew him at all. How much claim did one man have?

  If even one of the house guards had threatened her, the choice would be made; she would have trouble, whether she wished it or no, and she could stand by her companion. For once, they showed no interest in anyone but Corfaire. And Corfaire, knowing her position, did not so much as glance back as he walked out of the doorway.

  The end justifies the means.

  Telvar’s words, rust
y and quiet, came back to her. They had been said coolly, but their effect did not engender icy resolve. They burned.

  Even here, with everything at stake, Erin found that she did not have the strength to be more than the person she had become. She drew a breath.

  “The slave is mine.” She made her voice sharp, haughty, and cool. Years of listening to the prattle of the nobles had at least given her this ability.

  Five sets of eyes stared at her. A loud curse against the Church in the middle of a service would have had no less an effect.

  “What House Sentamos could not keep, I have claimed.” She stepped out of the door and moved forward with a surety she did not feel. The clean, sharp steel of drawn swords was more clear to her sight than the men who held them.

  “Garbage.” It was Yarvele who spoke.

  “Those are the laws of the Empire,” was her icy answer. “Should Lord Sentamos wish to regain what he lost, he might make an offer of purchase. Until that time, the slave is mine.” Her words had been true in the Empire that had existed four centuries ago; she prayed they were still true now. She had never missed her sword so much.

  “You wear no house colors.”

  “I bear no brand,” she countered smoothly, “and I have sworn none of my life to another’s keeping.” Her eyes pointedly looked at the crest across his surcoat. “If your lord is indeed here, I would speak with him. If he is not, you might wish to avoid embarrassing him by dealing with the market guard.” She turned to Corfaire. “Come.”

  “Hold.” A new voice said, and Erin’s heart nearly stopped its quickened beat.

  Yarvele immediately bowed, as did his comrades, and the downward motion gave Erin a clear view of a man dressed in oranges, yellows, and blacks. He was older than she by at least twenty years, perhaps more. It was hard to judge by his face, for a scar cut across the forehead and left cheek, twisting the corner of his left eye into a downward squint.

  Corfaire’s harsh breath told her more than she needed to know, and she used the momentary silence to shore herself up. This was the worst thing that could happen, but it had, and she had no choice but to deal with it as best she could.

  “Lord Sentamos?”

  The man’s eyes burned with flecks of red as her words drew his gaze from Corfaire. There was no madness in him, but the anger that was there was so intense it would be easy to mistake him for a reckless fool.

  Nothing in Erin’s life had been easy; she made no mistake now.

  “I am.” He bowed, but the bow was awkward, and Erin realized that at least one leg was partially crippled. “It appears that you have recovered a thing which was once in my keeping. I am grateful for it.” He straightened out, approaching his full height with a grace that belied his old injury.

  The guards were no longer at any loss. Their lord spoke for them, and Erin knew that while the one law, such as it was, was on her side, Lord Sentamos had the greater strength—and this was the unspoken law on his.

  Without her sword, she didn’t have a hope of robbing him of his advantage—there were four fully armed men here, and Corfaire would be given no opportunity to draw his weapon. Tiras might help—she was certain he knew all that had transpired—but if he felled these guards, and Lord Sentamos chose to call in the market unit, they would all be guilty of the minor infraction of murder.

  It would be worth the risk, if she thought there was a chance of carrying it through quickly.

  “Have you an offer?” Her voice was quiet.

  “Offer?” He raised an eyebrow, which distorted his face further. “Yes. You may keep your life. After all, there are laws associated with aiding an escaped slave, and each is less pleasant than those associated with keeping one.” His face lost its exaggerated politeness. “Take him.”

  “I don’t think so, Lord Sentamos.” The voice was new, although the person that uttered the words was obscured to Erin’s sight. Swords being drawn underlined the man’s meaning.

  Erin frowned. Something in the disdainful tone was uncomfortably familiar.

  Yarvele glanced at his lord, and the older man lifted a hand slightly. The guards moved to one side, to give their lord a clearer view.

  And Erin saw three men in the brilliant reds and golds of yet another imperial house. Two carried swords and wore fine-mesh chain beneath long surcoats. One of them was a giant who stood nearly a head above the entire crowd. He wore a helm, but the faceplate was turned up, and no one could mistake the expression on his face for anything but danger. The other man who stood beside him was less impressive, but he held his blade with a surety that spoke of years of experience.

  The third man was actually quite short: He carried no sword, and his dress was both elaborate and fine. His jacket was clean, rich velvet, and the ruffles that protruded beneath it, numerous to the point of absurdity, were nonetheless the work of the finest of seamstresses. He carried himself with the indolent arrogance that only assured power knows.

  Erin didn’t know whether to cry, scream, or laugh, so all three sounds compromised and came out in an audible choke—which was silence itself compared to the sudden noise behind her. She knew all three of these men very well.

  King Renar of Marantine stood slightly behind his personal guard: Gerald of the royal guard, and Cospatric of the Happy Carp.

  “Oh, Amelia. There you are. I should have known I’d find you here.” Renar sniffed disdainfully and brought one heavily ringed hand to rest on his hip. “What is all this fuss about?” He stepped forward, barely deigning to notice the house guards. “You aren’t going to lose one of our slaves, are you?”

  “No, indeed,” Erin replied stiffly. “Hello, Gerald. Hello, Cospatric.”

  “Ma’am.” Gerald nodded curtly. Cospatric’s reply was non-vocal, and Erin could only hope that everyone but she missed it. He winked.

  “Good. Lord Sentamos, do you have some business with my house member?”

  The lord raised a hand to his chin and studied Renar carefully—only a little less so than he did Gerald. “Perhaps I might. Which house do you come from?”

  “Dark Heart, don’t you recognize the colors? A man of your station? I must admit, I’m surprised.” And slightly offended, to judge by the expression of outrage that had already turned his cheeks pink.

  “I recognize the colors quite well. Tentaris.” Each word fell more curtly than the one it followed. “I do not, however, recognize you.”

  Renar sniffed. “Gerald, do be good and fetch the slave. Be careful with his pack.”

  There was a moment’s stillness before Gerald complied, and another moment before the house guards received Lord Sentamos’ unamiable nod and moved aside.

  “You are?”

  “Reggis of Tentaris. I hold the house’s eastern estates.”

  “I was not aware that Tentaris had any eastern estates.”

  Renar’s chest rose. “Well, Lord Sentamos, it seems you aren’t overly aware, but I hardly see that that constitutes a problem.”

  “You carry papers?”

  “Pardon?” The drop of the jaw that emphasized the word was followed by a quick snap. “I imagine my papers are as much in order as yours.” He shook his head. “Amelia, dear, do come here. Oh yes, and bring Peter and Jardonis with you.”

  Erin carefully threaded her way around the statues the House Sentamos guards had become. She looked once over her shoulder to see that Tiras and Darin had followed.

  “Very well, Lord Reggis. You own property which I would be interested in purchasing. Perhaps we might come to an accommodation.”

  “The price,” Erin said softly, before Renar could begin again, “would be very high. This particular slave has been well trained at arms and is less costly to maintain than regular guards would be.”

  “Your price?” was the even reply.

  “At this time, we are not interested in selling him.”

  “Oh now come, Amelia dearest. Surely we could just listen to what Lord Sentamos would be willing to offer?”

  “In
deed, that would be prudent.” Lord Sentamos stepped forward. “Ten thousand crowns.”

  Renar was taken with a sudden fit of coughing, and Erin slid her arm extremely firmly around his shoulder. She looked coolly at Lord Sentamos.

  “We will consider your offer carefully,” she said, raising her voice more than she would have liked so she could at least be heard over Renar’s choking. “But for this eve, we have business elsewhere that we must attend to.”

  “And where might that be?”

  “Elsewhere.”

  The answer was too quick and too sharp, and Erin nearly bit her lip seconds after she’d said it.

  “Perhaps, Lord and Lady, I will see your papers.”

  She looked at Renar, who shook his head very shortly.

  “What’s the trouble here?”

  Yet another voice entered the tense tableau. Erin swiveled her head to the side and froze. She felt Renar’s fingers bite solidly into her arm; they gave her the support her knees refused to.

  Arrayed just in front of the jeweler’s stall were eight armed and armored men. They carried swords that were readied for trouble, and the visors of their helms were down.

  But their surcoats were no ordinary market wear; they were solidly black, except for the broken circle that glittered at their chests and the red thread that embroidered their hems.

  She had used none of her power since she entered the market, none at all, in fact, since she’d left the inn.

  “Let me handle this,” Renar whispered. The sound reached her ears alone. He opened his mouth to speak.

  “Is there a problem here?” The Sword who had first spoken said. That he usually did not have to repeat himself was evident in the tone of his voice.

  “There is some question as to the identity of this man.” Lord Sentamos’ voice was smooth and slightly malicious. “I was in the process of asking to see his papers.”

  The Sword’s gaze swiveled to Renar. His eyes could hardly be seen in the dim light, but everyone knew where they were aimed. “I see.”

  Erin tensed further. No sword. No Heart-cursed sword.

  “Is there a reason for the request? He bears Tentaris’ crest.”