Scourge Page 18

  A blast of wind knocked Rigan flat on his ass. Dust rose around him in a blinding cloud before howling away through the doorway.

  Rigan lay on the floor, gasping. The blast of wind might not have been as dramatic as droplets of his own blood, but it tore the breath from his lungs and seemed, for an instant, to suck the air out of the room. He drew in the cold air gratefully.

  Once, long ago, he had nearly drowned. He would never forget how it felt to suffocate, how his lungs had burned and bloody pinpricks had danced in his vision as his ears popped and his body screamed for air.

  “Interesting,” Damian said, as he and Granmam regained their footing.

  “Interesting?” Rigan croaked, staggering to his feet. He was covered with dust. “That’s all?”

  “Promising, then. Is that better?”

  Rigan slapped his hands against his pants and shirt, beating away the dust. “I pulled from outside myself, and look what happened!”

  “You did well,” Granmam said. “Had you used that much force drawing from your own lungs, they would have ruptured.”

  Now you mention this? “Then I guess I got lucky. How do I keep from smothering us... next time?”

  “You must build in limits to your commands,” Granmam replied. “If you call to all the air, you will attempt to summon all the air. So you must contain the scope of your power.”

  “I think I’ve already proven I can call fire—and a little more forcefully than I intended.”

  “Give us one last attempt. Call to the ground.”

  If I do this wrong, do I end up with a handful of shit? “You want me to gather dirt into my palm?” Rigan asked, beginning to suspect that the success of magic lay in precisely defining the request.

  “If you can,” Granmam replied. “This will require finesse. Look at the walls around you and the ceiling overhead. They are made of stone, which is from the ground. Bedrock is beneath the floor. Pull too hard on the ‘ground’ and you may cause a quake, bring the ceiling down onto our heads.”

  No pressure at all, then... Rigan tamped down on his misgivings and tried to center himself. He was aware of the fear that tinged his thoughts, and the quickening of his heartbeat. He forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply, and as his breath grew more stable, his heart slowed. When he was ready, Rigan cast his power down through his body, through his legs and feet, through the soles of his shoes. He held the image in his mind of his power sinking through the mosaic tiles and stone floor, to whatever else lay beneath them, into the pure, clean soil long buried beneath the ancient structure.

  Rigan paused, aware that the ground went so much deeper. Soil lay atop bedrock, and beneath bedrock were even older strata, down into the bowels of the world, where tale-tellers swore melted rock coursed through hidden tunnels and sometimes burst up through broken mountains. He had never seen such things himself, but his magic bore witness to them, seductively offering to let him touch them, harness them, call to them.

  He resisted the temptation, and drew his power back, leaving the deepest places untouched. This time, Rigan’s mental image was precise and limited. I want a handful of dirt. Not my own shit, not hot melted rock, not bedrock. Just dirt.

  Without bringing everything down on top of us.

  He felt a tremor beneath his feet. He fought down panic, and kept steady focus on his gift, imagining it was a rope tied to the dirt, pulling at it with gentle, even pressure. The tremor subsided, though dust and plaster trickled down from the ceiling as the old structure trembled.

  Easy, he thought, as if comforting a skittish colt. Easy, now. Steady as she goes. That’s it. Good. Almost there.

  Rigan held out his hand, eyes closed, and willed his power to fulfill his command. Magic coursed through him like sullen lightning, reluctant to bend to his will. And then, he felt the damp heaviness of something in his hand and was afraid to look.

  “Very good,” Damian said. Rigan opened his eyes. In his palm lay a handful of fresh, rich dirt.

  “I think that’s all I can do tonight,” Rigan said and felt proud of himself that, while he slumped to his knees, he still remained conscious.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “YOU UNDERSTAND THE delicacy of the situation,” Crown Prince Aliyev said as he walked with Machison in the garden of his villa. From here, they could see clear to the harbor, over the rooftops of Ravenwood.

  “Of course, Your Highness,” Machison said. “We can handle this discreetly.”

  Three Merchant Princes divided the spoils of Ravenwood’s commerce among themselves, after paying Guilds and the hefty portion due to Crown Prince Aliyev, who passed on a share to King Rellan. The Merchant Princes, in turn, had patrons among Ravenwood’s nobility, which invested in overseas trade expeditions the way lesser men gambled on horses. Their fortunes depended on the trade agreements with their League neighbors, as much as the tradesmen and the common people’s lives depended on the quantity and quality of food and materials, and the severity of the Cull that were a direct outcome of the agreements.

  “I am not blind to the fact that the current agreement favors Gorog, and that you benefit from that,” Aliyev said. “Your favoritism persists at my sufferance, because, ultimately, it benefits Ravenwood as a whole.”

  “I am aware, my lord.”

  “I am also quite aware of the maneuvering by Kadar and Tamas to improve their profits,” Aliyev continued. “And I am not averse to it—up to a point.” He turned to fix Machison with a look. “Let them win a percentage point or two to stoke their vanity. But permit nothing that threatens Ravenwood’s favored status.”

  “No, of course not, my lord.”

  “Nice work with Vrioni and Throck, by the way. Well done.” Aliyev chuckled. “Vrioni would have been too much of a wild card during the negotiations, too much of a potential threat. Stanton will serve us much better, although I imagine Kadar is sweating by now. Good. Let him stew. Serves him right. He forgets himself when he seeks his own profit over Ravenwood’s.”

  Machison cleared his throat. “The evidence left with the deaths suggests Kadar’s hand, but remains sufficiently… ambiguous.” Jorgeson knows his business. The best evidence damns without being easily gainsayed. Kadar can’t completely refute the connection, which is almost as good as admitting it, and we covered our tracks well on Vrioni. Gorog plays Kadar; Kadar plays Gorog. Round and round it goes.

  “Ambiguous!” Aliyev echoed. “Not to anyone who has been paying attention. Everyone knows Vrioni allowed the coopers to raise the prices of their barrels. It was going to cut into Kadar’s profits from his vineyards. That’s what they’ll all see.”

  “That may be true,” Machison allowed, “but it wouldn’t be enough to prove he had Vrioni killed.”

  “Prove? No. But certainly enough to cast suspicion.” Aliyev waved his hand to dismiss the argument. “Throck’s death is harder to pin on Kadar, since he was Kadar’s man. Kadar may even blame Tamas.”

  Machison shrugged. “Jorgeson’s spies have spread rumors that Throck had angered Kadar, disappointed him. And they made certain that a bloody gold coin struck by Kadar’s mint was found,” he said, smiling. A good move by Jorgeson. Nicely done.

  Kadar’s coin might have come into Throck’s possession legitimately, but its presence lent itself to uncomfortable questions, given the timing. That left Kadar denying culpability without any way to prove his innocence, and gave critics all the evidence they needed while stopping short of anything actionable.

  “Make sure Stanton sticks to the plan,” Aliyev said. “Vrioni knew the way these things work, but Stanton is new, and going into an important trade negotiation. He’ll need to tread lightly. We want to make sure he does his part so we don’t lose the advantage we already have. And remember: while it is in my benefit to somewhat favor Gorog and remind Kadar of his place in this matter, all three Merchant Princes owe me fealty, and I am their lord. They must all benefit from this process in the long run to keep the peace.”

  Gorog will interpre
t Stanton’s promotion as favoring him. From where I stand, with Vrioni dead and an untested Guild Master at the negotiating table, it destabilizes Kadar and Tamas. Gives me more leeway to influence the outcome of the negotiations. The Merchant Princes have less chance to force an agreement to the detriment of the Guilds, and the Guild Masters won’t be quite as brash in their demands. Together they’re still strong enough to broker a good outcome for Ravenwood with Garenoth.

  “You understand how important it is for this agreement to go well?” Aliyev said. “Your games with the Merchant Princes aside, we will have to live with the outcome for the next ten years.”

  “Of course, my lord.” Machison had aligned himself with Gorog because he was the strongest of the Merchant Princes, contributing the most to the Crown Prince’s revenues. With Aliyev and Gorog as his patrons, a rise in Machison’s fortunes seemed likely. Perhaps a promotion to the Crown Prince’s court, and from there, Machison could woo the attention and favor of the King himself.

  “What about the hunters?” Aliyev said, changing the subject as he turned away to look out over the city. “You know we can’t allow them to continue—and you know why. Blackholt’s been as precise as possible about targeting members of unruly Guilds and their neighbors, enough to keep the fear constant. It will all be for naught if the people believe their ‘hunter heroes’ will save the day.”

  “I interrogated a hunter this week, my lord,” Machison replied. “The guards have orders to find and capture them, and—I’m quite proud of this—to pin their disappearances on hunters. The families won’t dare come forward and refute it; they would have to admit their men were hunters. And it all helps to vilify the so-called ‘heroes’.” He paused.

  “We have to keep up the pressure on the rabble. Disappearances, monsters, rumors of witches—or have your own witchlings stir up a little bloody mayhem and blame it on the Wanderers. The Balance is fragile right now, we don’t dare allow it to tip.”

  “As you wish, my lord.” What threat is so great that the Crown Princes—and King Rellan himself—are drawing so much power? Or are they creating a threat out of their petty sniping, using blood magic against their political enemies when a mortal assassin would do?

  “What of the distraction we discussed, once the ambassadors are assembled?” Aliyev asked without turning to look at Machison.

  “It’s been arranged. My witches have done their part, and the scenario will play out as we desire.”

  “See that it does,” the Crown Prince snapped. “It must go exactly right to have the effect we want. Kasten’s hungry to gain back its status in the League, which makes them dangerous. If we play this smart, we can weaken Itara and Sarolinia.”

  Sarolinia, in particular, posed a threat to Ravenwood that Machison wanted to neutralize. The Sarolinian Merchant Princes were young and aggressive, a new generation in power, eager to expand their fortunes.

  “Everything is ready, my lord,” Machison confirmed. “Just as we discussed. I assure you; the negotiations will run smoothly.”

  “They had better.” Displeasing the wrong people at the wrong time had cost past Lord Mayors their position, and their heads, and Machison knew it.

  “You have my word on it,” Machison replied.

  THE CARRIAGE LEFT Aliyev’s villa and headed into the heart of the city. Guards rode on horseback in front and to the rear of Machison’s vehicle, outfitted to give the impression of an honor guard. Wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m worried about anything. Machison could not shake a feeling of dread. Ridiculous. I’m letting my imagination run wild. I’m still among the villas. No one would dare strike here.

  A loud thud shook Machison from his thoughts, and the carriage lurched forward, accelerating to breakneck speed. He clung to the carriage strap to keep from being thrown from his seat. He did not need to ask the cause for the driver’s alarm; the sound of an arrow striking the carriage frame was reason enough to flee.

  Lovely. Now was that arrow meant for me, or the Crown Prince? By the time they reached the Lord Mayor’s palace, Machison’s fear had become rage. “Report!” he barked as he alighted, safe within the gates of his compound.

  “A lone archer took a shot as the carriage left the villa,” the senior guard replied. “One of our men gave chase, but we considered it more important to get you to safety.”

  “What of the archer?” Machison snapped.

  “The guard hasn’t returned. We’re not sure whether the attacker intended to shoot at you, or thought it was the Crown Prince in the carriage.”

  Certainly that’s the way I’ll have my people tell the tale, especially after Vrioni’s death. Yes. Someone is trying to destroy the trade talks, unnerve the participants, kill Aliyev. Enemies of Ravenwood. I can use this.

  “Give the arrow to Captain Jorgeson,” Machison ordered. “I want to know where it came from.” Then he turned and strode calmly into his home as if nothing had gone awry, intent on giving no appearance of weakness or fear.

  Several candlemarks later, Jorgeson stood before him in his office. “The arrow could have come from anywhere,” he said, dropping the missile on Machison’s desk. “Nothing special about the workmanship or the fletchings. In fact, I suspect that’s why it was chosen. There’s no way to trace it.”

  “And the archer?”

  Jorgeson shook his head. “Gone without a trace.”

  “Is it possible he thought he was shooting at Aliyev?”

  Jorgeson shrugged. “Hard to say. Is that how you want us to explain it?”

  Machison shared his thoughts, and Jorgeson nodded.

  “That can work to our advantage. Heroic of you to risk yourself to protect the Crown Prince,” Jorgeson added, raising an eyebrow so the sarcasm was not lost. “Puts him in your debt.”

  “Damn right. But we’d be in a stronger position if we knew whose faction fired that arrow.”

  “Agreed, but right now there are too many suspects. The Guild Masters and the Merchant Princes all have reason to remove rivals from the negotiations, or set them on edge. Even Itara or Sarolinia, or one of the other city-states, hoping to benefit if Ravenwood falters. Or it could be Kadar’s assassin, warning that he knows you’re supporting Gorog and reminding you that he wants in on the spoils.” Jorgeson paced as he speculated.

  Machison scowled and settled himself into the chair behind his desk. “Keep digging.”

  “In light of recent events are you planning to cancel the party tomorrow night?”

  “Cancel? No! Let’s see who has the balls to show up. Whoever’s behind it won’t dare not attend. They would look weak—or guilty. Especially if something did happen. Besides, everything’s set. Blackholt’s done his part, and my ‘witchlings’ have seen to theirs. We won’t have another chance like this, and I want to make sure it’s done right.”

  “It’s a dangerous game.”

  Machison gave a cold smile. “This whole negotiation is a dangerous game—and one I intend to win.”

  “Do you want additional guards at the party? To reassure the guests?”

  “I want all the guards we have on duty. Keep your eyes open.”

  “Very well,” Jorgeson replied. “What of the street patrols?”

  “Keep a few men around this house and the road to the palace. Just make sure none of those damn hunters are about.”

  “One more thing, m’lord,” Jorgeson said. “I received word that Merchant Prince Gorog said to expect him at ninth bells. Something urgent he wished to discuss.”

  Machison swore under his breath. “I’ll be ready.”

  Gorog arrived on time. Machison received him in his parlor, the most private place in the palace. Two glasses of whiskey sat ready on the table beside a decanter.

  “I know Aliyev summoned you,” Gorog said, wasting no time in preliminaries. “What did he say?”

  Machison pushed one of the glasses toward Gorog, and took the other himself. “He wants assurances the negotiations will be handled carefully. He approved of the Vr
ioni affair, but urged caution. Kasten’s got him worried—he figures they’re desperate and dangerous.”

  “They are.”

  “And we have made plans to handle that,” Machison reassured him.

  “Did he say anything about Kadar and Tamas?” Gorog pressed. His thin, dark hair barely covered all of his scalp. Good food had softened his prominent jawline and thickened his waist, but he carried himself like a man who could hold his own in a fight, and Machison knew that at heart, the Merchant Prince was a brawler.

  “He’s in a conciliatory mood,” Machison replied with a pointed glance. “Wants to keep the peace among the three of you, even if it means giving up a percentage or two, though he has no objection to you retaining your edge.”

  “That’s a load of shit,” Gorog muttered. “Kadar and Tamas don’t contribute as much to Ravenwood’s wealth as my Guilds and exports do. Why should I give them a larger share of the profits? They’ll only want more next time, and for less on their part.” He shook his head. “No. We keep to the plan. If you handle this carefully, I’ll maintain my favorable terms and you’ll be well-compensated for your trouble, Kadar will be reminded his place, and Aliyev will be none the wiser.”

  “We risk much, for relatively little,” Machison said.

  “A point or two over ten years, with revenues as they are, is a fortune. One I’m not willing to hand over to Kadar or Tamas. Infuriating upstarts.”

  “Garenoth may have something to say in the matter. If it’s true Kadar has invested in Garenoth’s vineyards, they may see an advantage in rewarding him. After all, their own vineyards were failing until they had a sudden—and mysterious—turnaround.”

  “All the more reason to block Kadar,” Gorog growled. “Investing in the infrastructure of other city-states, even friendly ones, is a dangerous business. Shouldn’t be encouraged.”

  “It’s not technically against League law,” Machison mused. “I looked into it. How far we dare push may depend on how cozy Kadar has made himself with the powers in Garenoth.”