Leaves of Flame

Perhaps he wouldn’t need to warn Colin about trusting Siobhaen after all.

“Are we returning the same way, or are we risking Gaurraenan’s halls again?”

“I doubt that Lotaern would allow us entrance through the corridors beneath Caercaern. Tamaell Theadoren would demand it, but we have no way of contacting him to make the Chosen open the doorway. We’ll have to risk returning though the tunnel and pass.” Colin glanced up. “Don’t worry. I don’t plan on being conscious when we pass through the halls.”

“Then how are you going to make it through the tunnels?” Eraeth asked.

Colin grinned around a mouthful of greasy rabbit. “I expect you to carry me.”

Tuvaellis reached up to tug at the cowl that shadowed her face from the sailors, prostitutes, and vagabonds that crowded the wharf and docks along the north end of Corsair. Her hands were gloved, to cover the swirling darkness of the sarenavriell that roiled beneath her skin, but she could not force herself to stoop to hide the difference in her height from the humans on the docks. Her lips pursed in distaste as she glared out at them, scurrying to and fro, laughing raucously or shouting from the ships tied up along the entire length of the northern shore for as far as she could see. She had never been to Corsair, the human capital of the Provinces, but Walter had told her to expect… chaos. He’d smiled as he warned her, but he had not mentioned the squalid stench, the reek of fish and sweat and shit that she’d encountered as she’d made her way down from the more civilized streets and inns closer to the massive walls of the keep beneath the towering spire called the Needle.

She glanced toward the Needle, careful to keep her face in shadow. Out of all of Corsair, which sprawled from the heights of the cliffs at the mouth of the inlet down across both shores of the wide swath of blue-black water between, to the river that fed the inlet to the east, the Needle was the most impressive building she had seen. It rivaled some of the Alvritshai’s own masterpieces, even some of those that had been abandoned in the northern wastes. Impossibly thin, reaching to a height that she could not judge against the backdrop of the clouded winter sky, and built of a pale white stone that had weathered into a yellow tinged with pink, she could not fathom how the weakling humans had managed to construct it. At its apex, during storms and at night, a light flared from the blackened windows to warn ships of the rocks beneath the cliffs of the narrow corridor that gave access to the inlet and protected the city from the harshest of the Arduon Ocean’s winter storms. Even now, wind thrashed in the pennants at its height, the clouds streaming eastward above it, although here at the docks everything was calm.

The palace beneath the Needle was coarse in comparison, a gray stone monstrosity that had been constructed around the base of the lighthouse and had grown over the years without any clear shape or form. Like the rest of the city, Tuvaellis thought, letting her gaze drop to the houses beneath the palace walls, spread across the hill where it sloped down to the waters of the inlet. At least beneath the palace there was some attention to form, the streets laid out in a pattern interrupted only sporadically by a plaza or park or fountain out-of-place with the rest of the natural order. But once her eyes reached the ramshackle streets of the commoners bordering the water, both on the north end and the south, all the way to the mouth of the river.…

“Chaos,” she muttered under her breath and scowled.

A laborer, carrying a crate across one shoulder, jostled her and her hand fell to the small dagger at her side, hidden beneath her gray cloak. The man barked a harsh, “Out of the way!” as he continued down the dock to a waiting ship. Tuvaellis considered killing him. She could feel the dagger cutting into his throat, could smell the spill of blood, could almost taste it. She’d kill him and be gone before his body hit the dock, and all anyone would see would be the blurred flicker of a figure in a gray cloak.…

The temptation was nearly too much, but she restrained herself, glanced toward the harsh glow of the sun hidden behind the layer of clouds, then back to the crush of bodies on the dock, searching.

Her contact was late. Had he been held up in the palace? Would he have sent a runner if he had?

No. He wouldn’t risk it. He’d come himself or not at all.

Even as she thought it, she spotted Matthais’ figure among the crowd, working his way toward her. His blond hair was easy to pick out among the mostly darker browns and blacks of the dockworkers, but it was the cut of his cloak-gray, like hers-that set him apart. That and his girth. Nearly all of the commoners at the dock were thin, although most had wiry muscle; Matthais was twice their size. Tuvaellis wondered why he had chosen to meet her here, at the docks, when it was so obvious that neither one of them fit in.

Matthais smiled as he drew closer, but the smile did not reach his eyes. He regarded her with an intensity she found surprising, cold and harsh and much more intelligent than she had expected.

“Excuse my lateness,” he said as he drew up in front of her, his gaze passing swiftly over the area. They had met at the end of one of the docks on the wharf, the ocean lapping at the supports beneath them, the press of the day workers on all sides. Yet Tuvaellis felt that Matthais’ single glance had picked up every detail around them, from the men and women who plied their wares to the wharf cats that twisted among the commoners’ feet. “King Justinian had business that I could not excuse myself from easily, not without drawing undue attention.”

“And meeting here, at the wharf, will not draw enough attention?” Tuvaellis asked snidely.

Matthais grinned. “Not from the men and women who matter. Besides, I was told you needed a discreet ship, sailing for Andover immediately. One whose captain would not question who his passenger was, nor ask any bothersome questions during the passage across the Arduon. Such ships are to be found here.”

“And you have such a ship?”

“The Mary Gently, a trading ship set to leave for Trent in Andover at the next tide.”

Tuvaellis straightened where she stood and scanned the ships within sight, noting the Mary Gently tied to the dock two lengths down. Her lip curled up at its size and shape. Not one of the larger traders, it had only two masts, had not been freshly painted in the last year, and showed some weathering. But its deck was clean and the sails appeared properly stowed. The crew appeared clean as well, more so than some of the ships at berth near it.

“This was all that was available?” she asked. Crew loaded barrels of what looked like salted fish into the hold as she watched.

“Unless you wish to risk one of the larger, more conspicuous, traders.”

She turned at the hint of annoyance in Matthais’ voice. Her eyes narrowed at the arrogance in his eyes. “You would be wise to remember to whom you speak, Councillor.” She tilted her head enough that he would see the black-marked skin of her chin beneath the cowl.

Matthais’ jaw clenched in anger, not fear. “And you would be wise to remember that I am the one in a position to influence the King.”

Tuvaellis lowered her head and wondered if perhaps Matthais had outworn his usefulness here in Corsair. But the plan had progressed too far for him to be replaced. They would never be able to get as close to the King in the time required, and she doubted they would be able to turn anyone else within Justinian’s ranks.

Besides, Matthais was not her problem. Let Walter deal with him. She was to handle Andover.

“This will do. When does it depart?”

“According to the harbormaster, within two hours.”

“I will need to retrieve my… possessions.”

“Then do so, quickly. The captain has already been paid. He will care little if you are not aboard when the ship sails.”

Tuvaellis almost snarled as the councillor spun and began making his way back through the crowd, her hand gripping the handle of the dagger inside the shield of her cloak. She had expected him to help her, or for him to make arrangements. Now it would be up to her.

She scanned the docks again and picked out a pair of rough-looking pickpockets she’d noticed earlier. They looked everywhere but at her as she approached, tried to sink back into the wall behind them, blend into the general background. Dressed in little more than rags, she wondered how they had fared that morning. The docks were not the best place for thieves; the dockworkers carried little on them, at least until their shifts were done.

The younger of the two tried to bolt when she was three steps away, but she caught the focus of the older one by holding up a silver mark in one hand.

The boy’s eyes widened, then narrowed in suspicion. The younger boy halted after taking ten steps, but hung back, wary.