I remember the suns, and being sick. I was sick for days afterward, kept to my bed. I didn’t want to go back into the water, but my father made me. He said I could not be a Seafarer if I could not swim. I hated him, for a time, for throwing me in. I screamed, and cried, but I have never been afraid since.”
Shorn nodded in the gloom, and smiled at the boy. He was pleased. There was no boast in the boy’s words, just simple honesty. It was good enough.
“That is all I wanted to know. I could never be your father, and I expect you do not want to be my son, but I will be proud, knowing that you face what comes with your neck held straight and fire in your blood. The legends tell that ‘the last wizard will stir, the revenant will awake and the land will shake in the thaw…’ It is for you to see your people safe. Hold onto your courage, no matter what. That is all any man can do, even when his fears try to drown him. Remember what it is to breathe the air, to burst when your lungs are crushed and flooded. That is what courage is. To rise above and breathe again. I wish you well, Poul, and your people, too. I am sorry that you must do this. You are so young.”
“I need no sympathy,” Poul bristled.
“And I give none. I wish you well. Your father seems a good man…I am glad.”
The boy paused, looking thoughtfully at the warrior. Eventually, after his examination, he asked, “Will you try to take me from my father?”
“No, boy. I have taken to many sons away from their fathers in my years. I would not take another. Go to him. I am sure his is waiting for you.”
Poul touched Shorn’s hand, and held it for a moment. Shorn nodded, once, then he turned and walked away.
Poul watched him go, and stood long after the warrior had gone. Eventually, determination on his face, he turned and went inside.
Chapter Forty-Eight
In the market of Beheth the costermongers and fishmongers harangued the passersby with promises of luscious fruits and succulent fish, in much the same way as the negotiable ladies on the balconies cried out to the men in the square ‘try my wares, am I not luscious too?’ The cosseted merchants lounged on balconies of their own, overlooking the market place, marking the flow of people, betting on the sale of goods that day, as they gamble on everything else, from the rare rains which sometimes flooded the canals, whether their horse would win at the races, even if they would be bitten by a mite, despite the attentions of their servants fanning air around their bloated bodies.
The recent rains meant meats and fishes would undersell, the frogs in the marshes and marshlands further to the south plentiful enough to make other meats obsolete, at least for a while.
Iraya Mar’anthanon watched the bustle, listened to the caterwauling in the market with boredom evident on her face. Once, she had found pleasure in the gambling at market, as an inexperienced maiden may find satisfaction with the innocent fumblings of a first love. Her maiden days were long past.
Then, she was merely a talented gambler, with an eye for money and a lust that could not be sated by the usual suitors. Now, she had become a dame, a woman of many talents. She had to be, to be a counsellor in the Kuh’taenium, the seat of human governance throughout Lianthre. She also laid claim to an extensive merchant empire, ruling the city of Beheth, and being a friend to the Protectorate. The last was the most difficult, and to her, the most satisfying. The rest was just juggling. No trick to it. Just keep an eye on the balls, anticipate their fall, flick the wrist in the right way to keep there arc true. Just as there was little challenge involved in ruling a subdued people — she never had to worry about an uprising, or political intrigue. Who would plot against her? Most of the wealthy merchants in the city were happy with their weekly gaming, high priced whores and cushioned beds. They did not understand the true meaning of power, its thrill, its wet allure.
They mattered little. Not one of them could remove her from power. Not while the Protectorate supported her.
But what fun in that? True, it allowed her to live a life of excess — she had whomever she wanted to her bed chamber, a stream of young, malleable men, who she prized for their stamina and looks above their ability to converse above the level of a child. Her home was vast, and to keep up appearances she had her own guard, loyal to her in every respect. Her flagstones were of the most expensive white-veined marble, her gardens tended daily by only the best gardeners. She kept ten fine horses for racing in her own private stables, and rode when she could. None of that mattered — they were rewards. It was the game that kept her playing.
The game granted her time. It was her most valuable commodity, one she would not trade away. But when she travelled to the north to Lianthre, she travelled with all her home comforts, and an entourage of forty-two people — handmaidens, bodyguards, soldiers, cooks…it made travelling, which could be so boring at times, something of a pleasant excursion.
There was no conflict of interest. Counsellors were allowed personal wealth — indeed, many of them were wealthy beyond belief — but they were not permitted to carry out the whims of the Protectorate within the Kuh’taenium. The Protectorate’s remit was security, and the ongoing, never-ending hunt for magic users, who could undo the security of the nation. Iraya did not care for magicians. She had never seen one. She could not imagine what kind of threat they posed. But sometimes the Protectorate asked for other things — a manuscript bought discreetly and couriered to their halls at Arram; a man killed, where their own hand would not be detected, a quiet murder in the man’s home, while his wife and children spent a day out at the races, perhaps; more often than not it was information that the Protectorate craved. She had her own agents provide them with a steady stream of information. Always their interest centred on people. If they were a threat, she often wondered, why not just have them killed? It was the most expedient way to deal with little irritations.
But it had not worked for her this time around. She had been told to inform her network to be on the lookout for Tirielle A’m Dralorn, disgraced counsellor, here in her own city. As it turned out, it would be the easiest gold she ever made. Tirielle had come to her! A letter, with no address marked, telling her what she already knew about the Protectorate — a catalogue of evil, abuses and abasements…a canker eating the heart of Lianthre, a parasite feeding on the people…it was not news to her. But she had found long ago that she did not care. The people were cattle, and if the Protectorate herded them for her, well, that just made life so much easier. They did not trouble her in her dealings, she did not trouble them.
But what a prize! To be able to hand them Tirielle A’m Dralorn’s head, unmarked, preferably. A message and some gold passed into the right hands, and it would be done.
It always had, in the past, but her assassins had not returned, and she still did not have Tirielle’s head on a platter. She did not waste time on puzzlement. The second night she had had her assassins followed, and her man had watched as they had been slaughtered. His account of the short fight had been detailed, and she had rewarded him richly. She appreciated good work, and besides, she had saved money when her assassins had failed. She would just have to pay someone else, instead. Not that the money mattered…money was not all that was at stake.
Now, she thought she should begin to worry. Tirielle was in the city, but Iraya had not informed the Protectorate. If they found out that she had kept her from them, just to line her own pockets…she had no choice now. She had set her targets. She had to kill her. If she succeeded, she would be well placed, and the Protectorate would reward her well.
If she failed…
She found she was delighted, and excited, as goose bumps raised on her arms despite the heat. To be balanced on a knife edge. It was what she lived for.
Each night Tirielle travelled to the Library of the Secessionists. Iruliya was mildly curious as to what Tirielle was hunting, but that was not what she was being paid for.
The woman had bodyguards while outside, and had taken over the whole of her lodgings with her men — by all accounts most capable men. She would have to be killed inside the library while she was unguarded. It would be no great challenge for Lunan. He was the best for a reason. It was time to put him into play. He had never failed her. He would not fail her now.
Lazily batting aside a mite, she went inside, into the shade. It would not do to get too much sun, it dried the
