“What you want?” the ruffian asked, sidling to one side, preparing to run.
Tuvaellis smiled beneath her cowl. “I need help loading a chest aboard a ship.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.” The coin, stamped with the crude image of Justinian, was within the ruffian’s reach. All he had to do was snatch it and run. Not that he would make it far.
She saw the intent in his eyes, saw it die. His head lowered and he looked away guiltily. “Is not worth a silver,” he said.
“It is to me.”
He glanced back at her, then toward his friend, who cast him a questioning look.
He reached for the coin, but Tuvaellis let it slip back into her hand. “After.”
The ruffian scowled, but motioned toward his companion.
She led them through the streets without looking back, confident that they followed, although they kept out of her reach and to the sides of the streets, ready to flee at any moment. As they moved, the younger carried on a whispered, fervent conversation with his elder, shaking his head and frowning, but the eldest finally growled and barked a harsh order. The youngest fell silent after that, but kept his eyes locked on Tuvaellis as they moved.
They reached the inn where she had stayed the night before and she motioned the two up to her room, ignoring the quizzical looks of the innkeeper. A moment later, the two ruffians were hauling the trunk down the stairs, one on each end. It wasn’t a large trunk, perhaps three hands long, two deep and two high, but it was heavy. Tuvaellis carried her own satchel.
By the time they’d made their way back to the wharf, the two ruffians were cursing the awkward trunk and shooting her scathing glances. She paused at the end of a dock, then found the
The sailor eyed her, then the two boys. “What do you want?” he asked.
Tuvaellis straightened slightly and the man’s eyes widened. He drew back, clutching the manifest he held in his hands closer to his chest. His white, wispy hair blew around his head; his beard was scraggly and rough.
“I am your passenger.”
He ran a hand over his unshaven face. “There’s no mention of these… boys.”
“They’re here to deliver the trunk to my room, that is all.”
The man still hesitated, but finally motioned up the ramp. “Very well. I’ll take you to your quarters.”
She followed as he stumped up the ramp, then down a short ladder into the depths of the ship. The two thieves spat and argued as they navigated the steps and the narrow corridor beyond before depositing the trunk at the door to what would be her quarters for the next month or more.
“This is where you’ll be stayin’,” the sailor muttered, motioning to a room barely large enough to hold her and the trunk. A cot folded down from one wall beneath a set of cupboards. A chamber pot sat in one corner. The only interruptions to the monotony of the wood were the worn but polished metal clasps and hinges on the cupboards and the latch to her door. “The mess is down the hall, food served at the bell. You can eat it there, or bring it back here. And I’d suggest you stay off the deck as much as possible. No need to give the crew ideas, what with a woman aboard and all.”
Tuvaellis smiled in the shadows of her hood. “The crew does not worry me.”
The sailor shook his head. He clearly didn’t agree with his captain about bringing a passenger aboard, especially a woman.
The older of the ruffians coughed surreptitiously and gave her a meaningful look.
She frowned, then remembered the coin. Taking it from the folds of her cloak, she tossed it to him. He snatched it out of the air with ease, cast one last greedy look back, then he and his young companion made for the deck.
“You’ll only encourage them,” the sailor growled.
She didn’t answer, simply stared at him until he fidgeted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “The
“Very well.”
He hesitated a moment more, then harrumphed, stepped carefully around her trunk, and vanished into the corridor.
Tuvaellis lowered the cot and tossed her satchel on it, then stared down at the trunk in the doorway. It was made of oiled wood-oak and ash-polished to a high sheen, its corners fitted with brass accents. The oak had been stained a dark brown, the inlaid ash paneling left its natural color. Two thick leather handles had been pinned to the ends for easy carrying; there were no marks on the trunk.
Tuvaellis knelt down beside it and rested her hand on the top. Even through the wood and the layers of protective cloth, she could feel the pulse of the object nestled inside, the object Walter had given her so many months before. She closed her eyes, her own heartbeat slowing and falling into sync with what was within. It lay silent, but she could sense the potential with which it had been imbued, taste the power it held wrapped in its innocuous form.
They had tried to transport the Shadows across the Arduon, but none of them had survived. They could not sustain their forms over such a large expanse of water, their dissolution occurring even with the foundation of the ship beneath them and the crew to feed upon. So they had turned to politics, attempted to incorporate their own among the ranks of the Families and the Court. But unlike the Provinces, the Families were too closely knit, the opportunities sparse. They had only managed to gain a foothold with the Church of Diermani, a powerful entity within Andover, more powerful than it had ever been since the Rose War, but still not one of the Families of the Court. And they had only gained a foothold at best.
But a foothold would be enough.
Tuvaellis stood, rounded the trunk, then knelt and shoved it across the plank floor to a position under the cot.
If they could not influence the Court, and could not corrupt the highest levels of the Church, then Andover would have to be dealt with in a more drastic manner. It could not be left unattended, could not be left capable of aiding the Provinces, the Alvritshai, or the dwarren.
And it had fallen to Tuvaellis to take care of the matter.
9
Deep within the Hauttaeren mountains beneath Caercaern, two acolytes stood before the solid stone doors of the inner halls, their eyes glazed with boredom. There were no ceremonies scheduled for the day, nothing that would require the Chosen or a covey of fellow acolytes or any members of the Flame to descend into the depths of the ancient halls. Certainly nothing that would require them to open the door that had been carved from two massive slabs of granite, the scenes on each-one depicting a lost location of the northern reaches during summer, leaves fluttering on a warm breeze; the other the same scene held in the icy throes of winter, the trees skeletal- worked in such detail that neither acolyte dared to touch them. The two had compared notes on the Sanctuary’s activities when they’d first arrived and relieved those who had stood guard before them, had stared at each for a moment, then sighed and settled in for a long watch. With nothing scheduled, they would be guarding the doors for the next eight hours, with nothing to do but stare into the darkness of the corridor beyond the slew of lanterns that lit the room.
“I don’t understand.”
Caera shifted uncomfortably. The acolytes that guarded the doorway to the inner halls were supposed to remain ritually silent. They weren’t supposed to converse.
But she’d already suffered four hours of silence.
Reluctantly, she said, “What don’t you understand?”
A tension in Thaddaeus’ shoulders relaxed, as if he thought he’d be reprimanded for speaking. Both of them remained standing in place, at ease, but backs straight, their leather armor hidden beneath brown robes,
