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  “The wine! Someone’s poisoned the wine!” Candra Pask exclaimed. She rounded on Lazin. “You’re the vintner. What’s wrong with your wine?”

  “Nothing!” Lazin argued. “We all drank from the same bottle— even me. So you can take back your slander!”

  “If someone meant to make an end to all of us, we’d be on the floor already,” Sarca said. “There might have been something in Vrioni’s wine, but it didn’t come from the bottle.”

  Machison called to another guard. “I want to know which servers poured the wine. Get them in a room and don’t let them go until we can get to the bottom of this.” He even managed to look outraged, with just the right degree of unsettled surprise. A good performance, if I do say so myself.

  The second guard went to do the Lord Mayor’s bidding. It was several minutes later when the first guard returned with an older man, somewhat out of breath, with long grey hair and the robes of a healer. “What’s wrong with him?” Machison demanded, pointing at Vrioni.

  The healer regarded Vrioni without getting close enough to soil his robe. He closed his eyes and stretched out one hand over the Guild Master’s writhing form. “Arsenic,” he proclaimed a moment later, opening his eyes. “It’s likely he’s been poisoned with it for weeks. It builds up in the body’s humors. What he consumed today pushed his body to its limits.” He looked to Machison. “There’s nothing I—or anyone—can do for him. It’s just a matter of time until he’s dead.”

  “Was it the wine?” Pask had regained her composure. “That’s his goblet,” she added, pointing at the cup where Vrioni had been seated.

  The healer walked over and once again let his palm hover above the vessel. “Arsenic,” he said. “Definitely not accidental.”

  The surviving Guild Masters traded glances. “Lazin’s right: if it were in the bottle, we’d all be dead,” Orlo said.

  “Not necessarily,” Sarca replied. “Arsenic takes time to kill. Maybe someone’s been poisoning Vrioni for a long while and a large final dose just did him in. We could have all drunk poison, and the effects don’t show—yet.”

  “Tell us,” Pask said, looking to the healer. “Was the poison in all the wine?”

  The healer moved around the table, holding his hand in turn over each goblet. Finally, he shook his head. “There was no arsenic in any cup but his,” he replied with a glance toward Vrioni.

  Vrioni lay still, eyes closed. The labored rise and fall of his chest was the only indication that he was still alive. “He’s not going to wake up,” the healer said. “It might take a day or two for him to die, but the damage is done.”

  “Move him to one of the unoccupied rooms, and get someone in here to clean up the mess,” Machison ordered. “Make him as comfortable as you can.”

  Two of the guards bent to pick up Vrioni, and carried him from the room. Servants began mopping up the vomit, while others cleared away the goblets.

  “Is that all, m’lord?” the healer asked.

  “Watch over Guild Master Vrioni until he dies. If you can ease his suffering, do so. When he passes, notify the undertakers to come for the body. Whatever the cause, he is entitled to a burial befitting his rank.” And the bill will be sent to his Guild.

  “We still don’t know how the poison got into his goblet,” Pask said. “Or who put it there. Or why someone wanted Vrioni dead badly enough to make a move here of all places.”

  “I have no idea why Vrioni was murdered or who did it, but the fact that the killing was done here, on neutral ground, should be a warning to all of us. We’re not safe until the guards find the murderer,” Lazin added.

  “Look to the trades that use arsenic,” Orlo commented, studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone. “Everyone knows it goes with smelting—and glassmaking. I’ve heard artists use it in their paints.” He shrugged. “That should narrow it down.”

  “Are you suggesting that I or my members had anything to do with this?” Sarca shot back indignantly. “Because if you are, I’ll see you on the dueling grounds!”

  “Orlo is talking out of his ass.” Zabak’s face was red with anger. “Of course he’s suggesting we killed Vrioni. I am outraged at such an allegation against the honor of the Artisans’ Guild. We had nothing to do with killing that horrid man. Nothing!”

  Pask rolled her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourselves,” she said. “We all know Vrioni’s fondness for cheap whores and expensive mistresses. I doubt it’s about business, but he’s left such a trail of wronged lovers it might take all year to interview the suspects.”

  “Given the circumstances—and the fact that not all of the Guilds have been represented here—I’m going to table this discussion until a later time,” Machison interposed. “After all, the Carpenters’ and Coopers’ Guild will need time to select a replacement, after the days of mourning are completed.”

  “By then, the Merchant Princes will have already gotten their way over the trade alliance,” Lazin grumbled.

  “Seemly or not, we want to be at the table for the negotiations,” Morina repeated. “And we are prepared to make it worth your while.”

  After all the shouting was finished, it always came down to money. “What did you have in mind?” Machison asked.

  “A man is dead!” Cela objected. “Surely this discussion can wait?”

  Morina rounded on him. “Vrioni wanted to change the Garenoth agreement to give more favorable terms to the vintners and distillers, because the coopers raised a hue and cry. More wine and spirits means more barrels, and more money for the coopers. Without his objections, we might be able to work out a compromise that works for all our members. Our livelihoods depend on this being handled correctly.”

  “The shipwrights would say that, of course,” Orlo said. “You win by default if trade increases.”

  “And so do you if more ships bring more sailors and traders, some of which will die in Ravenwood,” Morina shot back. “Plenty do.”

  Unspoken beneath the tension in the room lay the fact that some Guilds—and Merchant Princes—wanted a bigger share of the profits in the new agreement, whittling Gorog’s advantage, while those who currently benefited had no desire to see the terms change. While the Coopers and Carpenters relied on Gorog’s timber for their trade, Kadar’s vineyards and Garenoth’s distilleries and breweries played an oversized role in the Coopers’ profits, and other Guilds that felt squeezed out wanted a bigger piece of the action. Lazin, representing the Vintners’ Guild, was definitely loyal to Kadar and coveted more of the profits.

  Yet what was good for individual Guilds did not always work in Ravenwood’s overall favor. Machison, more than the Guild Masters, was mindful that what mattered to Crown Prince Aliyev—and ultimately, to King Rellan—was the total amount of gold brought in by trade, not the share that each Guild took. In the background as the Guilds quarreled, the other League city-states watched and waited, standing to gain if Ravenwood lost its favored status, which provided a powerful incentive to meddle.

  Morina gave Lazin a cold look. “You and Vrioni were the only two opposed to the agreement. He’s dead. You would stand alone on this, against the interests of the other Guilds and Ravenwood? That might be... unwise.”

  Lazin paled as the implication of the statement and Vrioni’s sudden reversal of fortune sank in. Machison saw a flicker of fear in his eyes.

  “My good Guild Masters,” Machison interposed. “I suggest that we table this discussion until tempers are quieted. There will be time enough to sort things out later.” While the meeting might not have gone in the direction the Guild Masters had desired, for Machison’s own purposes, it had been quite productive.

  ONCE HE LEFT the quarrelsome Guild Masters, Machison returned to the Lord Mayor’s palace, where he retired to his private chambers. Hant Jorgeson arrived a few minutes later.

  “Well done,” Machison said, pouring them both a glass of whiskey. “Plenty of suspects; no tears shed. The arsenic was a nice touch.”

  Jorgeson nodded, accepting t
he praise. “You want arrests made?” “Vrioni was a pain in the ass. Plenty of other people felt the same way. Question suspects, but spread the blame widely. Let the rest of the Guild Masters stew in their own juices, wondering who the killer is. The more time they spend pointing fingers, the less time they have to be a thorn in my side.”

  “I have spies in all the Guilds,” Jorgeson replied. “I’ll keep you apprised of what is said, who’s falling under suspicion.”

  “And make an example of the guards who were supposed to be protecting me,” Machison added. “Let them think I was rattled by death striking so close. The guards were sloppy; make sure the next ones are more diligent.”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  “Your plan is working. The Guilds are starting to complain about the Wanderers,” Machison said, changing the subject. Dragging the Wanderers into his plans had gone against his best instincts: he mistrusted their secretive manner and rogue magic as much as he hated their dirty faces and thieving ways. And my dreams about a crazy old Wanderer woman threatening my life certainly don’t help. Still, it seemed to be bearing fruit.

  “We’ve been running off the Wanderers too, but not in earnest yet, until their usefulness is done. They’d only come back again, like roaches. A few of the ship’s captains are willing to take the fit prisoners off our hands and pay us a pretty price for them. That might do for some of the Wanderers. Might actually put the fear of the gods in them, with all their talk of loving freedom: being chained up in a ship’s galley.” He chuckled at the thought. “We’ll hang some of them, once we go after them in earnest, and just finish off the rest.” He shrugged. “Hang too many people too often, even vagabond scum, and the locals get uncomfortable.”

  “And they don’t when people just disappear?” Machison replied. “Cut off some hands or put a few of the thieves in stocks—that’s a good deterrent too. If you hang every dishonest man in Ravenwood, there’ll be no one left to pay taxes.”

  Jorgeson chuckled. “I will make sure the men limit their sport, m’lord.” He paused for a moment, as if he wanted to ask a question, then thought better of it.

  “The guards are going to need to be a bit more visible when the monsters attack,” Machison said. “I know they keep the creatures out of the better areas, and the Merchant Princes pay us well for that, but the Guilds are starting to make noise about not getting the protection they’re paying for, so order your men to be seen more in Wrighton killing monsters. Be smart about it; we can’t risk jeopardizing the Balance, but we can’t completely antagonize the Guilds and the commoners. If the guards put on a good show, make it look like they’re risking their lives to protect the residents, it’ll be harder for the rabble to lionize the hunters. Proves you did your part, and, after all, you can’t be everywhere at once.”

  “It will be done, m’lord.”

  “Oh… one more thing. Vrioni had daughters. The younger one— dark hair and bright eyes—it would be a shame if she were to disappear in this difficult time. But sad things happen during times of grief.”

  “Yes sir. It certainly would add to the tragedy of these difficult times,” Jorgeson responded with a smile.

  ONCE JORGESON WAS gone, Machison moved aside a tapestry by the fireplace, revealing a concealed door, then lit a lantern and descended the hidden stone steps.

  The air smelled of torch smoke and charred flesh, with the coppery tang of blood above all.

  “I wasn’t sure you had the balls to come back to me so soon.” Blackholt’s sneering tone reflected his certainty that the Lord Mayor posed him no danger.

  Machison gritted his teeth, and reminded himself of Blackholt’s value. As for the mage’s confidence that he was untouchable, Machison was working intently to change that fact, and perhaps if Valdis proved himself, he might soon be rid of Blackholt, permanently.

  Thron Blackholt presided over the dungeons as if he believed he was Doharmu himself. Many of the unfortunates who disappeared from Ravenwood’s streets ended up here, their blood used in Blackholt’s dark rites.

  One of those wretches lay bound and spread-eagled on a table, eyes wide with fear, chest hitching with panic. Deep cuts had opened the veins in the man’s forearms and inner thighs. Bright red blood drained from the wounds into the grooves on the table, funneled into bowls set at the corners. From the pallor of the victim’s skin and his glazed eyes, Machison guessed the man had only minutes left before he bled dry.

  “What do you want?” Blackholt said.

  “We need to maintain the Balance. The Guilds are looking to upset the trade talks, so I want you to direct the monsters to punish them. Start with the Coopers and the Vintners. We can’t allow the Guilds to find common cause, or the city dwellers to unify.”

  “I told you that I would see to that, and I will.” Blackholt’s selfassurance set Machison’s teeth on edge. “You have seen evidence of my handiwork.” The blood witch picked up one of the bowls of blood, barely glancing at the dying man, and took it to his work table, where he poured a measure into a glass sphere and set the rest of the bowl aside.

  “I’m not sure that what you’re doing is enough,” Machison said.

  “There is a fine line between terrifying people into submission and pushing them to the point where they have nothing to lose, making them reckless and dangerous. We risk everything if we go too far.” As Machison watched in sickened fascination, Blackholt swirled the blood around the vessel until the entire sphere was coated, before holding it up between them.

  “Behold.”

  At Blackholt’s word, the sanguine film rippled. In the scarlet orb, Machison saw creatures that might have been ghouls ripping their way through an alleyway and the lower levels of a house. As he watched—fascinated and horrified—the creatures tore into their victims, rending them apart, and feasting on the bodies before the last of the blood pumped from them.

  “Three monster attacks tonight, targeting the most troublesome Guilds,” Blackholt said. The image in the blood vanished, and the dark witch set the crimson-stained orb aside. “Sufficient for your purposes, don’t you think?”

  “When I get the results I want, that’s when your work is ‘sufficient,’” Machison snapped.

  “Have a care how you address me. I serve your master, not you.”

  “You were given to me, not loaned,” Machison shot back. “Have a care yourself. We rise or fall together.”

  “And if the Balance breaks? What then? A new King? Return to civil war?”

  “Unpleasant and undesirable, but survivable,” Machison countered. “You’ve got to make the monster attacks count—make certain they’re targeting the right people. We can only kill so many of the residents before the rest rise up against us.”

  “What the Balance holds at bay is far worse.” Blackholt made no attempt to disguise the contempt in his voice.

  “If the commoners storm the palace and burn us for our sins, we will be dead; and if the Balance does not hold, we will be dead,” Machison countered. “We have an equilibrium of our own to maintain.”

  Blackholt snorted. “If the Balance doesn’t hold, death is not the worst of it. Right now, the monsters do our bidding. Their numbers are manageable, and the creatures we summon are not the worst of their kind. If the Balance is not maintained, the walls between our world and the Dark Places will grow thin. Breaches will occur. We will be consumed.”

  Machison regarded Blackholt. “I’ve heard many a warning about the end of the world,” he said. “None have come true. But push men too far, give them nothing to lose, and they rebel. On that, you can be assured. I worry more about what’s likely than what’s possible.”

  “Spare me.” Blackholt turned away. “I will increase the diversions—but in my own way and as I see fit. If you don’t like that, I suggest you take it up with Crown Prince Aliyev.”

  “Your service is appreciated,” Machison ground out through clenched teeth. He cast a disapproving glance toward the corpse on the table. “Try not to decimate the popu
lation before they can pay their taxes.”

  He has got to die, and soon. Valdis must work more quickly.

  * * *

  LATER THAT NIGHT, long after curfew, the guards announced that Guild Master Sarca had come to pay a call. “Bring him to my library,” Machison ordered. He straightened his collar and smoothed a hand over his thinning hair, checking his reflection in a mirror. Sarca’s appearance this late could only mean that the Guild Master had information, or business he did not wish to discuss in front of the full Council. Machison smiled. He’s running late. I expected to hear from him a candlemark ago.

  “Come in,” Machison replied when the guard knocked on the library door. He rose from a chair near the fireplace as if he had just been at leisure.

  “Guild Master Sarca,” he said, affecting a tone of mild surprise. “What can I do for you, at this hour? Please, come in. Would you like a whiskey?”

  Machison poured liquor for both of them, and gestured for Sarca to sit in a chair near the fire. They both knew this was not a social call. A hardness in Sarca’s eyes told Machison that his guest understood and resented the advantage the Lord Mayor gained by meeting on his own territory.

  “Vrioni’s death leaves a void,” Sarca said. “The Guild is meeting tomorrow to elect a new Master. They don’t want to be left out of the talks.”

  “Interesting. And do you know who the candidates are?”

  Sarca licked his lips nervously. “Two names have come up: Inton Throck and Hess Stanton. They’re among the most senior members of the Carpenters’ Guild’s inner council.”

  “Continue.”

  “Throck is Merchant Prince Kadar’s favorite to succeed Vrioni, from what I hear. He’s seen as tough, and willing to fight for what Kadar wants. That means trying to rewrite terms and shortchange the rest of us. He could get in the way of a new agreement with Garenoth. He’d be good for the carpenters—and a headache for the rest of us.”

  “And Stanton?”

  “He’s the preference of the rest of the Guild Masters. Easier to work with, less dogged, and happy with the deal the carpenters get under the current agreement with Garenoth. He won’t get in the way with the negotiations, and he’s well-liked by the members.”