Rigan opened his eyes and looked at Corran with such naked grief that his brother struggled to hold his gaze. “He killed you,” Rigan whispered. “Right in front of me. Told me that was what my magic could do, to watch and learn.”
Corran reached out and took Rigan’s wrist, wrapping his fingers around the bone in an unbreakable grip. “But he didn’t, Rigan. I’m still here. That didn’t happen.”
“It seemed real in the dream,” Rigan replied, looking down. Corran squeezed his wrist one more time and leaned back, dropping his grip.
“What else?”
Rigan licked his lips, frowning. “I can see everything in my mind, but it’s hard to put into words, some of it. The old Wanderer woman I saw in the city, she’s there. And those sigils they drew. I can see the sigil, but I don’t recognize it.”
Corran grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill from the bedside table. “Can you draw it?”
Rigan concentrated, closing his eyes again, and then looked up and began to copy what he saw in his memories. “There,” he said finally, handing the paper back to Corran. “That’s it.”
The rune meant nothing to Corran. He put the drawing aside carefully. “If we ever meet up with some Wanderers again, we’ll have to ask them,” he said tiredly, passing a hand over his face.
“They’re out here,” Rigan replied. “The guards ran the Wanderers out of the city, so they must be somewhere in the countryside. And in a while, they’ll be back inside the walls, once things settle down. That’s their way.”
“Well, we won’t be going back,” Corran replied. “So if we find them, it’ll have to be here in the countryside. What else?”
Rigan’s brows furrowed in concentration. “The old woman was trying to tell me something, warn me. She looked worried, but I couldn’t make out what she said. And then she was gone, and I saw Eshtamon.”
Corran caught his breath. “Do you think it was really him?”
Rigan shrugged. “I doubt it. Nothing else was real. Although, he’s an Elder God. If he wanted to get into my dreams, I suppose he could do it.”
“What did he want?”
“He stood in the middle of the road, out here beyond the walls, nothing around in sight except fields and fences. And he looked straight at me—remember how that felt?”
Corran nodded. No one ever forgot being the subject of a deity’s focus.
“He didn’t say anything, but the way he stared at me like he was saying, ‘you, boy. I’m talking to you.’” Rigan wet his lips. “And then he spread his arms like he meant everything around us and he looked at me. No words. But I knew.”
“Knew what?” The words barely made it out of Corran’s dry mouth.
Rigan met his gaze. “We’re not done. Someone’s still summoning monsters. We have to stop them. We swore to Eshtamon we would.”
“Son of a bitch,” Corran muttered under his breath. “That’s what we figured on our way back from fighting the ghouls. That some of them might have wandered out of the city, but not all of them. Not the smart ones—the strix and the shape-shifters, the nokk—they belong out here, been here for a long time. There aren’t that many of them. But the other things, the ones that come in packs, that don’t do anything but kill, I think they’re the conjured ones. And they can’t all be left over from Blackholt.”
“Pretty sure that’s what Eshtamon tried to tell me. So now we’ve got to start over again, figure out who’s behind it, and how to stop them.”
“The Merchant Princes? Some local wealthy landowner? I don’t even know where to begin,” Corran confessed. “This—it’s bigger than what a handful of outlaws can do.”
A bitter smile touched Rigan’s lips. “Then let’s make more outlaws.”
“What do you mean?”
Rigan fidgeted as if worried about Corran’s reaction. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while now. What if we made more hunters? Told the townspeople the truth about the conjured monsters, and showed them how to fight back? I mean, they’re used to fighting off wolves that want to take their sheep. This is just a different kind of predator. Tell them about salt and iron, show them how to make the salt mix and draw the circles. That way, when we move on, they can still protect themselves.”
Corran nodded and smiled thinking of their recent conversation. “And if someone else out here is calling the monsters, we can keep it contained, with more help. Find out who it is with more ears to the ground.”
“Do you think the others will go for it?”
Corran laughed. “Pretty sure they will. Polly’s already suggested training townsfolk. We haven’t exactly hidden what we do. And if the villagers knew how to fight the creatures, they wouldn’t have needed our help. It wouldn’t take long to give them the basics. That’s the key—we can’t afford to be out in the open, in one place, for too long. That’s asking for trouble, if not the guards than the bounty hunters. But yeah, I think it could work.”
Rigan swayed, and Corran caught him by the shoulders, easing him back on the bed. His brother had paled, and a thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead. “I think you overdid it there,” Corran said. “You need to rest.”
“Send Aiden in,” Rigan replied, eyes wide. He could not hide a flicker of fear. “I don’t want to dream again.”
Chapter Seven
“What have the Ravenwood spies reported?” Sarolinian Crown Prince Neven stood at the stone railing of the walkway outside his villa, overlooking the sea.
“The city remains in chaos. Aliyev has taken over for now and says nothing about naming a new Lord Mayor. The fires are out, but there’s still too much of a mess for them to begin rebuilding,” Brice Tagar replied. The Sarolinian spymaster kept his voice low, while his eyes constantly scanned the horizon for threats.
Ingrained habit. Useful. Neven thought. “Yet the Garenoth agreement stands,” Neven mused. “Despite the debacle that fool Machison created.”
“For now, my lord. Signing the trade agreement is only a formality. Ravenwood may still lose its advantages if it defaults on its obligations.” Brice Tagar presented a study in contradictions. His unremarkable appearance and slight build made him forgettable, all the better to pass unnoticed. Tagar was adept at hiding a sharp intellect behind an utterly bland appearance, a fiction he cultivated. He did not vie for dominance; he recorded all slights received in an indelible memory and accumulated the means for payback.
“Then we must assure that default,” Neven said, clasping his hands behind his back.
“Our ambassador has returned from Ravenwood,” Tagar replied. “I’ve let him know you’ll want to speak with him.”
“Tell him I’ll expect him at dinner. Let my servants know.”
“Of course, m’lord.” Tagar stood a respectful distance from his employer, joining him in gazing out over the sea. Ravenwood lay to the south, out of sight but never far out of mind. “I have news about Kadar.”
Neven did not bother to turn toward him. “Tell me.”
“Kadar’s quite upset that he did not gain more advantages in the new Garenoth agreement,” Tagar reported. “Machison was Gorog’s creature, so he made sure Gorog got most of the spoils. Aliyev doesn’t care who ekes out an extra percentage of profit so long as the overall revenues remain unchanged. Merchant Prince Tamar stays largely out of politics, playing bookkeeper to his lands unless Kadar drags him into a scheme. He’s likely to be wary, what with Gorog’s example.”
Merchant Prince Gorog, the wealthiest and most powerful of his three Ravenwood peers, died shortly after the riots. Officially, Gorog was said to have committed suicide, distraught over a personal crisis. Few believed that story. After Machison’s spectacular failure, Gorog could not hope to regain Aliyev’s trust, and even the usually-pliant Guild Masters disdained him. Gorog might have had cause to kill himself, but all indications suggested murder. His son reluctantly took over the title and responsibilities.
“I don’t doubt that Aliyev had a hand in the elder Gorog’s death,” Neven
replied. “It’s what I would have done if I were him. But I don’t think it will deter Kadar for long.”
“Doubtful,” Tagar replied. “The man’s too greedy to show restraint for long. And he’s been most receptive to the possibilities suggested by our go-between.”
“Oh?”
Tagar paused for a moment, lifting his face to the wind. “My man is very good at what he does. Made several coincidental meetings before striking up a conversation of any importance. Kadar’s bitter about how the agreement turned out, and he’s got no love for Aliyev, either. Seemed most intrigued at the thought of using smuggled goods to pad his profits.”
“Good. Very good.”
Tagar chuckled. “My man said he had the feeling that Kadar had thought about the possibility before, but lacked the connections to bring it off. Or perhaps it was merely a backup plan, in case he didn’t get his way with the negotiations.”
“How interested is he? Willing to actually do something?” Neven pressed.
“Indeed, m’lord. The fool gave my man money to buy the first load of goods. It’ll come ashore on the third night this week, on a back bay not too far from one of Kadar’s vineyards. Barrel planking from some of the oak trees in Itara that are so highly prized, delivered without tariff or import fees.”
“Excellent,” Neven replied. “Make sure he receives the best quality, even if you augment the value of what he paid for a bit. This must be a solid win for him, easy money. He won’t be able to resist doing it again, either to line his pockets or to spite Aliyev. Kadar will be pleased with himself for his cleverness. It shouldn’t take long before he’s begging to expand. And all the while, he’s cutting away the very foundation of the League that made his fortune.”
“My sources tell me that Kadar might have overextended himself, expecting to reap the benefits of a Garenoth agreement more to his liking,” Tagar continued. “He’s anxious to make up the shortfall, so backing smugglers to keep his costs down suits him very well.”
“Do you see any indications the other Ravenwood Merchant Princes will cause us problems?”
Tagar shook his head. “Gorog’s son is hesitant, too unsure of himself. And coming in on the heels of his father’s disgrace, he’s going to be cautious—too careful. Tamar should have been a monk. The man has little ambition. I think he bores Aliyev nearly as much as he bores everyone else.”
“Where are King Rellan’s attentions these days?” Before he received the appointment as Crown Prince, Neven had held a position much like Tagar’s, feeding information and scenarios to the previous Crown Prince. When the time was right, and the trust he enjoyed was inviolate, Neven had helped his elderly mentor go to the After a bit earlier than the gods might have planned. To assure that history did not repeat itself, Neven arranged for very comfortable house arrest for Tagar’s family, contingent on his own longevity and good health. Negotiations, I’ve found, work best, when both parties fully understand what the other wants.
“Outside of his bedchamber?” Tagar smirked. “I’m told the king tears himself away from his courtesans long enough to meet with the exchequer regularly, to make sure that taxes are paid, and revenues don’t slip. He doesn’t care how the money comes in, only that the flow never falters. It will take more than a few fires in Ravenwood to pull him out of the arms of his mistresses.”
“Don’t underestimate the king,” Neven warned. “He may be preoccupied, but his survival instincts are as sharp as ever, and he won’t hesitate to send assassins against anyone who poses a threat. I’ve heard you get one proxy warning, and then you die.”
Tagar turned around, leaning against the railing. “We’re a long way from the palace. You’ve done well, picking the flesh off the bones when Kasten defaulted. That should give us some room to maneuver. And if you can add Ravenwood to your trophies—”
“Let’s not start spending gold before it’s in hand,” Neven said. “What of the hunters that killed Machison?”
Tagar crossed his arms. “My spies tell me they fled the city the night of the fires. Aliyev has men looking for him—rumor is Hant Jorgeson is one of those doing the searching.”
“I’m surprised Jorgeson kept his head, after what happened.”
“Crown Prince Aliyev has a dry sense of humor, I suppose. Jorgeson’s been given a small team and sent out to redeem himself.” Tagar snorted. “Or rather, to keep his head out of a noose.”
“Knowing Aliyev, he’s sent Jorgeson to clean up his own mess, but the noose is still waiting for him.”
“I’d expect nothing less,” Tagar replied. “It’s a danger for Aliyev, having the hunters loose. Inside Ravenwood’s walls, they can be contained. But out in the countryside—they could skew the Balance, or worse, let slip about the Cull.”
“Let’s hope Jorgeson keeps them running too hard to confide in the locals,” Neven replied. He turned away from the view and walked to a cart that held a decanter of whiskey and a glass. He poured himself a drink and offered one to Tagar, who declined.
“Even if the king doesn’t notice a drop in revenue, his witches will certainly pay attention if the Balance isn’t kept,” Tagar said. “Having hunters killing off his monsters won’t help that.”
Blood magic required a price, and on a small scale, the practitioner could pay the debt in his own blood. Physical limits tended to keep the dark magic in check. Then ambitious blood witches discovered that the price of magic could be paid by proxy, enabling larger spells and workings that would have required enough blood to kill a single person. Once the witches learned how to summon monsters from the Rift and sent them to kill, they were free to use blood magic on a scale rarely before attempted. The cost came in the Cull, the death toll caused by the conjured monsters.
“I’m sure that’s occurred to Aliyev. He’s got to clean up Blackholt’s unfinished business, as well as Machison’s,” Neven said, sipping his whiskey.
“Surely Aliyev has a blood witch. He’s wealthy enough to afford more than one.”
Neven savored the burn of the exquisite liquor. “Oh, he has his witch. Pretentious little prick that goes by the name of Adder Shadowsworn. He’s powerful—better than Blackholt, from what I’ve heard.”
“Talent and strength are only part of the equation,” Tagar said, straightening.
“Shadowsworn is also ruthless as the Pit. You would do well to remember that.”
“Oh, yes m’lord, I shan’t forget it for a moment,” Tagar replied with a cold smile. “It makes the game that much more interesting.
“To what do I owe the honor of this dinner?” Ambassador Lorenz asked once they had finished the main course. Servants cleared away the dishes, and Neven signaled to the wine steward to refill their goblets.
“You have been in Ravenwood recently, for the signing of the Garenoth agreement,” Neven said, leaning back in his chair and observing his guest. Lorenz had the jowls and paunch to suggest he ate well and frequently. As befitting his position, his waistcoat was excellently tailored, of fabric only slightly less opulent than what Neven himself wore. Gemstones glittered in the candlelight in the rings on Lorena’s pudgy fingers. One look at the man’s eyes revealed him to be anything but soft.
“Just before the… recent unpleasantness,” Lorenz replied. “What is it you’d like to know?”
“How was Machison regarded by those closest to him?” Neven asked. Aside from the fact that I always thought of him as a self-serving rodent.
Lorenz set his goblet aside and tented his fingers. “May I speak plainly, my lord?”
Neven nodded. “You’re of little use to me if you speak only in the veiled pleasantries and nuanced lies of your profession.”
Lorenz tilted his head, acknowledging the truth of Neven’s statement. “Machison was a street fighter, a brawler who made good. He did not come from a particularly wealthy or influential family. He scrapped for every break he got, and he held on to what was his like a starving cur with a bone.” He paused for a sip of his wine.
“I didn’t like the man. Few people did. He was brutal and vulgar,” Lorenz continued. “But even his enemies respected his tenacity, and his ability to bull his way through to get what he wanted. Only a fool underestimated him. He was productive, in a bare-knuckles sort of way.”
Neven chuckled. “I appreciate your candor. Your opinion matches my own. How, then, did Machison make such grave errors?”
Lorenz raised an eyebrow. “He forgot that appearances matter as much as results,” he replied. “Yes, he and his blood witch kept the Cull. But they were sloppy about it, clumsy in their execution. Started setting the monsters against his political enemies’ proxies instead of making the strikes random. Those of us knew the truth of the matter could see that he went too far provoking the tradespeople.”
“How so?” Neven leaned forward, listening intently.
“He let his side agreement with Gorog drive his choices,” Lorenz replied. “Started having Blackholt send the monsters against the neighborhoods with Guilds that owed their loyalty to Kadar or Tamas or that earned his ire. He forgot that tradesmen are not rabble. Send the monsters against the vagrants and the dispossessed; no one will notice or mourn them. But tradesmen are fighters; have to be to earn their living. It was only a matter of time before they fought back, and once they did, he had a rebellion on his hands.”
“Surely ‘rebellion’ is a strong word for a street riot—”
Lorenz shook his head. “I saw what happened, my lord. I was in the city that night. Aliyev may spin the tale that it was a few ruffians and Jorgeson’s poor judgment, but how did ‘ruffians’ defeat a blood witch like Blackholt? How did mere brigands pull off a plot to get inside the Lord Mayor’s palace and take down the most guarded man in the city?” He finished his goblet of wine.
“No, my prince. Rabble did not kill Machison or Blackholt. The tradesmen rose up to protect their own, and in the end, even the Guilds had more than they could stomach… with the monsters and the hostages Machison took to assure their cooperation in the negotiations.” He folded his hands on the table. “Now Aliyev must work out a truce of sorts with the Guilds because even if the Guild Masters do not understand the Balance or the Cull, they know Machison worked against them. The fires damaged much of the city. And while some of those fires were likely set by the hunters, I am equally certain that the guards set some themselves, on Machison’s orders, to implicate the Wanderers.”
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