Time's Demon

by D. B. Jackson

  Even after he finished, she didn’t stir, until at last she turned his way. “I’m sorry. Sorry for all you’ve been through, but also because I don’t think I can help you. You’re a friend, but I’m afraid that won’t mean a lot to my king.”

  “I thought as much,” he said. “But I left out one detail: the smugglers I killed had something that was stolen from Milnos.” He opened his travel sack, lifted out Moar’s parcel, and handed it to her.

  Wink regarded him, and then the bundle. She peeled away the stained cloth and gaped at the object it had covered.

  Cresten sat forward to get a better look. He had been too rushed that first night to examine the gem, and too leery of revealing what he carried to look at it later.

  It was a polished orb of crystal about the size of his fist, swirled in blues and greens, translucent, iridescent, flecked with gold. It gleamed in the late day sun, entrancing.

  “It’s called Drayla’s Jewel,” Wink whispered. “It’s… There isn’t enough gold in all of Milnos… For turns now, its disappearance has consumed the entire court. There’s been talk of war.”

  “That was the idea,” Cresten said. “Someone intended to smuggle it into Vleros. I don’t know who or why.”

  Wink straightened, met his gaze. “It doesn’t matter. You’re about to be a hero. The king will let you stay as long as you like. He’ll probably make you rich.”

  The way she said this…

  “I’ll share what he gives me. Honestly, Wink–”

  “It’s all right. I have all the gold I need. And it sounds like you earned this.” She stood. “Come along. We need to request an audience with His Majesty.”

  Cresten stood as well, abruptly feeling nervous.

  “It’ll be all right. He can actually be quite kind.” She grinned. “And he doesn’t know that you’re just a shit-beetle.”

  Cresten smiled at this, and followed her from the chamber.

  CHAPTER 28

  30th day of Kheraya’s Descent, Year 634

  After her conversation with Lord Orzili in Hayncalde Castle, Gillian convinced herself she wouldn’t have to endure too many more days with Bexler. Orzili spoke confidently of contacting her again, of sending her somewhere, of supplying her with coin. How could she not hear in their exchange a promise of adventure to come?

  She returned to the flat that first night, escorted by a soldier, elated at how well the encounter had gone. Bexler seemed happy enough with the payment she brought from Orzili. They celebrated with a sumptuous meal and a flask of Miejan red. She allowed the Binder to take her to bed, and even managed to enjoy herself.

  A qua’turn at most. So she told herself that night, as Bexler snored beside her. Surely, Orzili wouldn’t make her wait longer than that. Another qua’turn, or perhaps a bit more, to prepare for her departure and arrange passage aboard a ship. She would be on her way before the end of Kheraya’s Stirring. Anticipation brought a smile in the darkness.

  They would send her to Aiyanth. Or maybe Ensydar, or Milnos, or somewhere in the Labyrinth. That night, the possibilities struck her as limitless and magickal.

  But word didn’t come within a qua’turn, or a ha’turn, and her elation withered. She spent much of each day listening for messengers at their door, her spirit darkening with every bell. Bexler waited for the materials required to build the tri-sextants, his mood nearly as foul as hers. They stalked about the flat, avoiding each other, saying next to nothing. He was so absorbed in his own misery that he never stopped to question what caused hers. Probably he didn’t notice; he wasn’t exactly blessed with empathy for others.

  Gillian blamed the woman, the one who entered Orzili’s chamber the day she visited the castle. Something about Gillian’s presence had disturbed her. And Orzili had made a point of saying he would consult with her about Gillian’s desire to work on their behalf. No doubt the woman convinced him to search elsewhere for his spies. Well, damn her. Damn them both.

  Still, she held out hope. Orzili had sounded so certain.

  Another qua’turn crawled by. A shipment of gold arcs arrived, allowing Bexler to resume his work. If anything, this made matters worse. His mood improved. He grew more attentive to her emotions, at least when he wasn’t Binding. She knew why, of course. He was as predictable as he was self-absorbed. He wasn’t a fool, though. He soon grasped that she awaited word from someone. The questions that followed infuriated her, even as they filled her with guilt.

  “Who would send you a message? And why? Who did you see when you went to the palace? What did you talk about?”

  She told him as little as possible, but she couldn’t ignore him entirely. Invariably her cryptic answers begot more questions, until every conversation became a joust.

  “What kind of work would you do for them? Why would they need spies here? Where would you go? How long would you be gone? When did you intend to tell me all of this?”

  This last proved hardest of all.

  Never.

  That would have been the most honest answer, and a part of her longed to speak the word. The longer she waited for Orzili’s message, however, the more she doubted that one was forthcoming. Once again – still – she had no choice but to rely on him, his magick, his ability to earn gold.

  She held her tongue, smiled when he spoke to her. She meted out her affection, being as miserly as she could without alienating him completely.

  All the while she continued to wait and hope, though the latter required more and more effort.

  It rained the day a fold of parchment finally slipped under their door. Bexler had left the flat for the market, Sipar be praised. She didn’t know or care what he sought. All that mattered was the message.

  “Prepared to engage services. Come tonight.”

  She read the message three times, its meaning sinking in by degrees. Relief, excitement, the revival of her early elation. All of it overlaid with panic. How was she to prepare without drawing Bexler’s suspicion?

  Gillian scrawled “Received” on a tiny roll of parchment, tied it to the leg of one of their remaining pigeons, and sent the bird on its way. She packed her things, her pulse racing, sweat souring her gown. She decided to leave before he returned. She would pass the day at an inn or tavern, or in the market if she could avoid him. She would wander the lanes if she had to. Because if she didn’t flee the flat now, she never would.

  She considered leaving a note, but that would only alert him to her intentions. He might search for her, or worse, go to the palace and ruin everything for both of them. She wasn’t sure he loved anything or anyone other than himself, but if he did, he loved her. Best then to let him think she had run an errand. By the time he realized she wasn’t coming back, she would be beyond his reach.

  As she emerged from their building onto the street, she saw him coming. She ducked out of sight, hid in shadows as he climbed the stairs to their flat, and slipped into the lane once their door closed. She heard him call her name as she rounded the corner onto the larger street, but she didn’t slow.

  She found a small tavern and for several bells sat in a dark corner at the back of the great room, sipping a passable Fairisle white. When night fell, she made her way through the lanes toward the castle. A fine rain misted the city; puddles shone among the cobblestones. The streets were largely empty; each time she heard footsteps, she thought it must be Bexler. She pulled her cloak tight about her shoulders and watched the cobblestones ahead of her. She passed several patrols of soldiers, and a few men and women hurrying through the rain to their homes. She didn’t see the Binder.

  Recalling her last visit to the palace, she readied herself for a confrontation with the gate guards. It seemed, though, that Orzili had sent word that she would be coming. The soldiers at the outer gate let her pass. At the inner gate, a woman in uniform greeted her by name. She escorted Gillian to Orzili’s chamber, knocked, and, at a word from within, waved her through the doorway.

  Orzili stood at his desk, the side of his handsome face li
t by hearth fire, his bronze hair pulled back in a loose plait. He glanced her way, then looked again, taking in the bag she held.

  “I didn’t intend for you to leave tonight.”

  She swayed, cheeks aflame, unsure of what to say. She felt like an overeager child. How could she possibly go back to the flat?

  Silence stretched between them. He set aside the parchment he’d been studying.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I hope to have passage arranged for you by tomorrow. I’m sure we can find a chamber for you tonight.”

  “Thank you,” she said, barely managing a whisper.

  “How go the sextants? Do you even know?”

  She nodded. “Th- the second is nearly done. He went to the market today seeking materials for the third. I don’t know if he found them.”

  “Does he hurt you?”

  She straightened, mortification battling with outrage. And losing.

  “No. If he did, he’d be dead by now. I don’t love him. I’m not sure I ever have. Do you know what it’s like to be trapped with someone you’re supposed to love but don’t?”

  His expression turned brittle, and he pivoted back to his desk. “I don’t. I suppose I’ve been fortunate.” He reached into a drawer and withdrew a leather purse. “The coin I promised,” he said. “Enough to cover expenses for a time. You’ll need to find employment once you arrive, but that was always going to be the case. People need to believe you belong there.”

  “Of course.” She crossed to him, took the purse. This close, she could smell him. Sweat, bay, a hint of spirit on his breath. She wondered if the woman she saw last time was his wife, or his mistress. “Where will I be going?”

  “I’m sorry, I thought you knew. We’re sending you to Aiyanth. Are you familiar with Belsan?”

  “Somewhat, yes.”

  “Good. We think he might need a chronofor.”

  “He does. His was broken the night of Mearlan’s assassination.”

  Orzili’s gaze sharpened. “How do you know?”

  “He asked Bexler to fix it. Before he realized we were working for the Sheraighs, of course.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me when last we spoke?”

  “I didn’t think of it. That day was… confused. So much happened.”

  Disapproval creased his brow. “I’ll expect your reports from Aiyanth to be more thorough.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  He huffed a breath. “As I was saying, you’re to go to Aiyanth. There are few places one can hope to find a Bound device. The Belsan marketplace is one. You’re to listen for word of inquiries about chronofors. Report any to me.”

  “By bird?”

  “Yes. You’ll take three of mine with you. I’ll have them brought to you in the morning.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is there anything else, minister?”

  The dismissal felt abrupt, but she fixed a smile on her lips. “No, my lord.”

  “Fine. Let’s find you quarters for the night.”

  She followed him to the door, waited as he summoned a steward.

  Soon an older man arrived and relieved her of her bag. She should have followed, but instead had the steward wait in the corridor. She crossed back to Orzili, who had returned to his desk.

  He eyed her.

  “Yes, minister?”

  “Forgive me, my lord. The last time we spoke, you asked if I could kill. I’m wondering if I should prepare myself–”

  “No,” he said, his tone flat. “That won’t be necessary. When the time comes I intend to kill the Walker myself.”

  Belsan in the growing turns was as fine a city as Gillian could imagine. Its bay sparkled under clear skies, and ships carved to the wharves on warm westerly breezes. The city’s homes and shops, built of white stone and roofed with blue-gray tile, glowed under the hot sun. Storms blew through the city, bringing wind and lashing rain, but they soon moved on, leaving Belsan clean and smelling of lightning and brine.

  Foods and wines from every land between the oceans flooded the marketplace, all of it fresh and cheap.

  Gillian rented a flat on a cozy lane two corners from the market square. It was close enough to the waterfront to be inexpensive and to bring little notice to its lone occupant. Yet it was far enough into the city to keep her clear of the worst smells from the low lanes.

  She found work as a shopkeeper for an old merchant. He was white-haired, but hale and ruddy. As a younger man, he might have been handsome. Gillian thought him the perfect employer. He fancied her, doted on her unabashedly, and paid her a good deal more than she would have expected for such work. But he was too proper to make advances, or even speak of his attraction. She greeted every kindness as she would a father’s attentions. If this frustrated him, he gave no indication of it.

  When she wasn’t at his shop, she was in the marketplace, chatting amiably with men and women selling their wares, seeking out those who might traffic in Bound devices. At first, it seemed a different set of peddlers descended on the square each day. Soon, she came to understand the rhythm of the place. Ships came to the Axle, unloaded their goods, and moved on. For a time.

  Aiyanth was called the Axle because it lay at the center of Islevale, accessible from Oaqamar and the Bone Sea, the Inner and Outer Rings, the Labyrinth and the Sisters. It was the hub of commerce between the oceans. Oaqamar might have been Islevale’s preeminent naval power, and the Ring Isles were wealthy beyond measure, but Aiyanth was the heart of all.

  Belsan’s marketplace teemed with people and gold. Peddlers came and went, but the most successful among them always returned. Once Gillian realized this, she befriended those she recognized. Slowly, unobtrusively, she began to ask questions, and to mete out information about herself – some real, some invented – that would make her questions sound innocent.

  “Do you ever get out to the Knot?” she asked one merchant, an Oaqamaran captain named Xhevenol, who preferred to sell his own goods rather than treat with the city’s peddlers.

  “On occasion. You thinking of going there?”

  “No, that’s where I came from.”

  Gray eyes narrowed. “The accent, the look? I would have guessed you was from the north Ring. Ensydar, or maybe Daerjen.”

  She smiled, inwardly cursing his shrewdness. “Very good. I was born in Trohsden, but I came here from one of the Knot isles. A royal city. I probably shouldn’t say which.”

  That caught his interest. “Noble?”

  “Hardly. I was married to a Binder in one of the courts.”

  “That right?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “He no longer to your liking?”

  “You could say that. He drinks too much, and he’s a mean drunk.”

  This prompted a silence that she allowed to stretch uncomfortably before asking, “You get many Bound devices coming through here?”

  “Belsan, you mean?” Xhevenol couldn’t have been happier to change the subject. “Sure. Lots of ’em. There’s only a few who want ’em, and fewer still who can afford ’em, but when you find the right buyer, it means some gold, doesn’t it?”

  “I would think so. I gather quality can vary quite a bit. From Binder to Binder.”

  “Sure it can,” he said, speculation in his glance. “Does your… your husband do good work?”

  “His master thinks so. I’ve heard others say – when they thought I wasn’t listening – that his pieces are less refined than those of others.”

  “I see.”

  She knew she had him. She could have answered his next question before he asked it. Instead she wished him good day and turned to move on.

  “Wait a moment there,” he called. He stepped out from his booth, gently steered her back to it. “Would you know your husband’s work on sight?”

  “I might,” she said, trying to sound guarded. “I’m not interested in stirring up trouble. I had enough with him.”

  “No trouble.” He kept his voice low. “Just a little inf
ormation now and again. I don’t get a lot of Bound devices, but when I do, I want to be sure they’re quality, catch? You could maybe look at ’em for me. Tell me if you recognize the workmanship. Do you know anything about ’em, other than what’s your husband’s and what’s not?”

  She twitched a shoulder. “A little. You live with a Binder for ten years and you learn a bit.”

  He smiled. “I’d think so.”

  Before long, Xhevenol had spoken to other merchants about his friend who could tell them which Bound devices were of quality and which weren’t. Once cloaked in that reputation, she had no trouble learning all she needed about who was selling the pieces and who expressed interest in buying them.

  Xhevenol offered to pay her ten treys for every sale in which she assisted him. Other merchants promised the same. Over the turns that followed, she examined only three devices: two sextants and an aperture. To her surprise, and to the delight of the merchants, Gillian did point out subtle flaws in craft that had escaped their notice. She had learned more from Bexler than she ever imagined. The thought brought a twinge of regret.

  No one asked her to look at a chronofor, or mentioned buyers who sought such a device. Orzili, though, had sent her here for a reason; she trusted that eventually word of such an inquiry would reach her.

  She was right.

  The first rumor of a merchant captain seeking a Bound chronofor came early in Kheraya’s Fading, by way of Kantaad, too far for her to do more than send a message to Orzili relating what she had heard.

  That night, while lying in bed unable to sleep, an idea came to her, in the form of a question that repeated itself in her mind. Why wait for Tobias to seek a chronofor in Belsan or somewhere else? Why not use the merchants she had befriended to steer him wherever Orzili wanted him to go?

  She didn’t know what Orzili would think of this. He might dismiss the notion as foolish or heavy-handed. He might tell her he hadn’t hired her to do anything more than spy.

  Nevertheless, she swung out of bed, drafted a longer missive in tiny letters, and tied it to the leg of a second dove.

  Even after she sent this bird, slumber eluded her. Her thoughts raced, not because she had more she wanted to tell Orzili, but because she knew her idea would work and wanted to set it in motion. She hoped Orzili would give her permission to do just that.