City of Strife Page 13

  “Freshly arrived,” Jaeger answered. “These mercenaries began accepting contracts about a month before the feud, and much of their quick growth in the first years can be attributed to the efficiency they showed in completing the most brutal jobs offered by both House Allastam and House Freitz.”

  Diel frowned, and silence fell as they considered the possible repercussions. Brune had the influence necessary to make the guards drop their accusation before it became official, but it might cost her a lot if the Allastams were convinced of this find. Lord Allastam had never forgiven the world for his wife’s death, and no one in the city would want to be the target of his bitterness, especially after a decade of festering. No matter her course of action, Brune and her mercenaries had caught his attention. Not an enviable position. Jaeger wondered if she might not cut her losses and leave her assassin to fend for himself.

  After a while, Diel turned to Yultes. “What will Lord Allastam expect of us? Unwavering support?” Diel pinched his lips. “He is no fool. He knows I share none of his most violent inclinations.”

  “You cannot anger such an important ally and go against him.” Yultes’ voice had tensed. As the Dathirii elf in charge of that relationship, he would be the first to catch heat should Diel decide to clash with Lord Allastam. “Your war with the Myrians already strains our reputation and resources. House Allastam is a long-standing ally of ours, and they have agreed to help in our time of need, both through financial support and by pushing for anti-Myrian laws at the Golden Table. Milord, I have used every last ounce of my considerable skills of persuasion to get such an agreement. I beg that you don’t ruin it with some personal moral qualm.”

  Jaeger’s eyebrows shot up. He pressed his lips together, holding back a faint smile. Yultes could always dream, but if Diel found sufficient reason to call Lord Allastam’s actions immoral, he wouldn’t hesitate. And with Diel Dathirii, ‘sufficient’ wasn’t a high standard to reach. Only the prospect of losing this alliance when they were in such a delicate predicament would hold him back. Public animosity between the Dathirii and the Allastams would be a hard blow to the other nobles’ opinion of the Dathirii.

  “Yultes, if I think it necessary to speak up, I will.” Diel’s sharp tone surprised even Jaeger. He usually tried to be more diplomatic with his family. “I trust your considerable persuasion skills will be sufficient to salvage our relationship from the wreckage of my unyielding ethics.”

  The scowl on Yultes’ face was worth decades of aggravating arguments. Jaeger put all his training to bear in maintaining a neutral expression as the elven noble whirled around with a huff and strode toward the exit. “Not even I can work miracles, Diel!” he said over his shoulder, timing his declaration to give Lord Dathirii no chance to answer.

  Yultes almost ran into Garith on the way out. The younger lord hadn’t knocked or waited, rushing into the office without the slightest hesitation. He threw the departing Yultes a confused look, then rolled his eyes. Jaeger prepared for a little quip—Garith wasn’t the kind to let Yultes’ self-imbued attitude go unremarked—yet their coinmaster’s expression returned to a frown. His hair hung unbound on each side of his face, and worry creased deep lines around his eyes and mouth. Jaeger’s insides tightened. Only dire news would undermine Garith’s carefree nature. Judging from the concern etched on Diel’s face, the older elf had reached the same conclusion.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Garith pushed strands of hair aside and looked up at his uncle. Slight nausea assaulted Jaeger. When had Garith ever needed to gather his courage to say anything? Especially to Diel? Most days, getting him to stop talking was the problem.

  “Uncle, I can’t find Branwen.”

  Diel tilted his head to the side. It wasn’t rare for Branwen to disappear for a few days. “Isn’t it part of her job?”

  “She warns me when she goes into disguise. We were supposed to dine together yesterday, review everything we knew about the Myrian Enclave. She never showed up.”

  Garith fidgeted with a strand of hair, pulling and twisting it. Despite his apparent calm, Lord Dathirii’s jawline and shoulders had tensed. His gaze darted from Garith to Jaeger, then to the parchments about the Myrians, before returning to Garith. They all knew what he was thinking.

  “Two days ago, I asked her to make a round of our local merchants. She was to warn them they might become targets, but assure them we would do our best to protect them,” Diel said. “Two days ago, those same Myrians reduced Sierra’s shop to cinders.”

  “I know.”

  “And you haven’t heard from her since.”

  Garith shook his head. “Not a word.”

  Diel Dathirii grabbed the closest chair and slumped into it. He leaned forward, head falling into his hands, skin paling. Jaeger remembered the panicked tales from their Dathirii guards. A pyromaniac cleric laying waste to the shop, great flames blazing around him. Nothing to comfort Diel there. The steward could almost follow his thoughts as they moved from one worst case scenario to the next. After a time, Diel cupped his hands around his mouth, breathed into them, then straightened. His gaze met Garith’s, and his voice fell to a raspy whisper.

  “If they’ve hurt her, I will have their enclave razed.”

  “No bodies were found within the shop’s ruins.” Jaeger worried someone like High Priest Daramond could incinerate others without a trace, but he refused to voice such thoughts before Diel.

  Diel flicked his hair back and stood up. A fierce light burned in his eyes now, grim and determined, and this new energy washed away the slump brought by their earlier discussion about fleeing allies. Jaeger recognized that expression, having seen it hundreds of times. In every fight Lord Dathirii led, there came a point where Diel decided it was personal, when he could no longer raise a barrier between his professional endeavours and his private life. This was it. Jaeger’s heartbeat quickened as the Head of the Dathirii House turned to him and deep green eyes caught his, burning with the very passion that had melted his heart decades ago.

  “Jaeger.” Diel said his name with the serious tone he kept for business, and the attitude brought the steward back to the present. As much as Jaeger loved indignant and determined Diel, now was not the time. “Trace her itinerary. Question witnesses until we know exactly where she went missing. If it’s truly there … send a missive to the Myrian Enclave. Make it public. Demand the safe return of Lady Branwen Dathirii, and make it clear that no respectable House of this city will stand for the kidnapping of one of our own.”

  Everyone knew worse than kidnapping could have occurred. None of them would say it out loud. “Right away, sir.”

  Jaeger hurried to his desk to carry out his task. He hoped Diel’s dangerous wording would not come back to haunt them. In calling all of Isandor’s nobles to his side, he forced the other families to declare their allegiance in this conflict. By framing the Myrians as outsiders, he turned them into invaders. Ignoring Branwen’s predicament would be an affront to the Dathirii, and as good as an official alliance with the Myrians. Diel trusted traditions and decency would push them into action, but Jaeger had his doubts about the city’s goodwill.

  As Jaeger settled to write the missive, Diel pulled his nephew into a hug. His words stuck with Jaeger as he dipped his quill in ink.

  “Don’t worry,” Diel said, “we’ll find her. No one touches my family.”

  “Did you read this? ‘No respectable House of this city will stand for the kidnapping of one of our own.’ How delightfully naive.”

  Avenazar brandished the public missive received from the Dathirii earlier that morning with a cackle. He’d stepped into Jilssan’s quarters half an hour ago without knocking, interrupting her review of spy reports. Although he mocked the letter’s content relentlessly, he’d yet to give Jilssan the chance to scan it. She bit back a bitter remark about it and the time wasted by his gleeful jokes and extended a hand, hoping he would finally share. Instead, he shook the parchment midair and read through it again, laug
hing.

  “He has such a clean writing hand. It almost turns his passionate claim into a lie!”

  His dramatic tone grated on her nerves. Since the start of this quarrel with the Dathirii, Jilssan had spent more time with Avenazar than she’d ever cared to. The insight into how deeply he loved violence and cruelty left her exhausted and scared. Pretending to care about the level of destruction she and Varden had wrought and how much more Avenazar intended to do demanded too much energy. Jilssan forced a smile to her lips nonetheless.

  “Let me see.” She would never get to if she didn’t ask. Avenazar handed her the letter, pouting. She snatched it away before he changed his mind. “That’s his steward’s handwriting. They’ve been lovers for more than a century. Lord Dathirii is the impulsive saviour of the defenseless; Jaeger is the calm, organized rock on which he relies.”

  It amazed Jilssan how little Avenazar knew of their enemies. Two years living in Isandor, yet he’d never learned anything beyond who he liked, who he hated, and who he could easily crush. Jilssan provided information, giving what finesse she could to his blunt, violent plans.

  While Avenazar rambled about how little he cared for Lord Dathirii’s private life, she read through the message. Her mood shifted from mild amusement to confusion. They accused Myrians of holding their spymaster prisoner? Why would they throw such a baseless accusation around? Jilssan frowned, unable to find a rational explanation that fit Lord Dathirii’s character. To pretend they’d used their assault on the shop to snatch Branwen Dathirii away seemed a dangerous gamble.

  Unless it wasn’t one. If he truly believed they had captured his niece, this letter would be his exact reaction.

  Jilssan hadn’t noticed Branwen at all during their tour of Dathirii allies. Not very conclusive evidence, considering her reputation for disguises, but still. What if she had been there? When could something have happened? Her mind turned to the posh boutique they’d turned to cinders, to the owner who kept glancing back, to Varden’s slowness in starting a real, all-devouring brazier. Cold crept down her spine. What if indeed.

  “What’s with the frown? You don’t think there’s any truth to this, do you?”

  “No.” Her dismissive answer surprised her. What was she doing, lying to Avenazar? She folded the letter and handed it back to him, occupying her hands, trying to keep herself steady. “He’s playing the victim, or he wants us to drop our guard and think his best spy is out of order.” She hoped she sounded convincing, because she believed her words less with every passing second. “Deny everything. Say we abide by Isandor’s tradition and would never touch someone of noble rank.”

  Avenazar scoffed. “How ironic. They trot about claiming superior morals, but you can kill anyone, and they won’t bat an eye unless it’s a noble. Then the public outcry is out of control.”

  Jilssan’s eyebrows shot up. With the treatment reserved for Isbari in Myria, that was a rich statement. But Avenazar was a little different. He didn’t care for human life, regardless of ethnicity. Slaves just happened to be the easier, more acceptable target.

  “A great point, Avez. You’re constantly ahead of the curve!”

  Except when it came to information. Or plans involving finesse. Or self-control. In short, she was lying, but it paid to compliment Avenazar.

  “You don’t need to sweet-talk me.”

  His honeyed tone indicated the contrary, and bile rose in Jilssan’s mouth. He loved this. After his obvious lust for Isra, she wouldn’t put it past him to get ideas. Perhaps she should slow down on the niceties and reestablish a healthier distance. She did not want him to take too keen an interest in her.

  “Message received,” she said. “Handle the nobles, and I’ll see what our spies have to say about this declaration. I’ll bet he’s up to something.”

  She already knew he was. Those reports on her desk mentioned Lord Dathirii had sent several private letters at the same time as this public missive. She needed to get away from Avenazar and think this new situation through, however. Better to get her story straight before she lied again without an inkling of the implications. Jilssan strode out of her room, leaving Avenazar behind without another word. Questions jumped at her the moment she stepped out of the door, as if waiting for the dangerous mind-mage to be gone.

  What had Varden done? He wouldn’t hurt Branwen Dathirii, didn’t have that in him. Which meant he’d protected her from the enclave. Hidden her from Jilssan. Where? Should she have checked the shop for survivors first? She knew he could shield himself from flames and wouldn’t be surprised if his power extended to others. Varden’s precise control impressed and scared her all at once. She was glad it didn’t rest in the hands of a ruthless sadist like Avenazar.

  This raised an interesting question: what could Varden do that none of them knew of? How much power did the High Priest conceal from them, out of reach of Avenazar’s grubby hands? Her steps had led her to the temple, and she stopped in front of its large brazier, the source of Varden’s strength. Never before had she considered how little she knew of his abilities. Jilssan let the fire warm her skin until it prickled—until unease nestled in the pit of her stomach. She had always thought of Varden as a pretty face with too good a heart, stuck in a hopeless situation. Until now, he’d never shown a sign of turning against them. She’d assumed it meant he was no match for Avenazar, but doubts crept into her. Perhaps he’d been biding his time, trying to endure, and encountering Branwen Dathirii had sparked the forest fire.

  Jilssan stepped away from the temple’s brazier, her face hot. She glanced around, searching for acolytes who might’ve been staring at her. She didn’t often visit Keroth’s holy site, and now it seemed almost hostile. She turned on her heel, hurrying to the exit.

  Her first impulse was to search the library for more information. They’d brought a number of tomes with them to allow continued research into spells or to use as bargaining assets with some families. Knowledge was power, and Myrians had garnered a wealth of it through research and conquest, creating and stealing in equal parts. Even faraway outposts kept a core collection of tomes with them—copies scribed by the handful of slaves who could write. They might have records of divine magic granted by Keroth to Their priest, and then she’d have a better idea of what Varden could and couldn’t do. She didn’t want to confront him without a precise idea of his abilities.

  Jilssan slowed, her strides faltering in the middle of the courtyard, cold wind slapping her face, prickling her skin in a way strangely similar to the fire. The thought of confronting Varden had sent a stab of fear through her stomach. A warning from her instincts, the certainty she was about to make a mistake, crawled under her skin. She breathed in deeply, freezing air shocking her lungs. Fear had gripped her mind and made her jump to the wrong conclusions.

  If High Priest Varden Daramond—favoured by Keroth, blessed with fire powers way beyond her current understanding or skills, fuelled by righteous anger he’d bottled up for years—if he wanted to go against Master Avenazar, Myria’s wild enchanter, the wizard who destroyed entire neighbourhoods on a vendetta, who trampled through people’s minds with relentless glee … well, that was his business. Not hers. And she needed to stay as far away from the clash as possible.

  Thriving in Myria’s dangerous political grounds often didn’t mean choosing the right side, but knowing not to get involved at all.

  The best option now was to never confirm her doubts. She needed to stay safe if this showdown happened, no matter the outcome. If Varden truly wielded enough power to defeat Avenazar, then she could tell him she’d known from the start and kept his secret. But if Avenazar won … She shuddered, as much from the cold as from the horrors he would no doubt inflict on Varden’s mind. And in the process, he would stroll through the priest’s memories, including any potential discussion with Jilssan about capturing Branwen. Once she knew the truth about Varden’s actions, she would be forced to place a bet on one of these two men.

  She grimaced and turned around
, heading back to her quarters, hoping Avenazar hadn’t lingered there. Branwen Dathirii could stay hidden, wherever she was. Jilssan was in no hurry to find her, risk Varden’s anger, or allow Avenazar to unleash his sadistic impulses on the poor girl. She would read the spy reports instead and focus on her uncle. Lord Dathirii commanded no secret power, at least, and the choice between him and Master Avenazar was an obvious one.

  Larryn looked down upon the pompous silver-trimmed doublet he had slipped on with a grimace. Sure, the outfit offered extra respectability compared to his sauce-stained shirt, but he hated having to wear it. He’d stolen it from the hypocritical elves during one of his many expeditions into the Dathirii Tower and used it whenever he had to deal with arrogant shitheads who preferred wealthy assholes to decent, normal folk. Most guards fell into that category, and Larryn hoped he’d cleaned up enough to get more than insults from them. As he dusted himself off one last time, a small voice called to him.

  “You’re dressed funny.”

  Larryn turned to greet one of the Shelter’s youngest patrons, and his favourite. Efua was just ten years old, but she’d been on the streets for as long as he remembered. Her curly hair had grown into a huge sphere in the last years, and he loved the way it framed her round face and curious eyes. Very few others dared to enter his rooms without knocking, but Efua could get away with anything where he was concerned. Larryn never had it in him to stay angry at the kid.

  She approached him and ran her fingers over the silver trim. “This looks rich. You don’t like rich things.”

  “No, I don’t. I need this to talk to Hasryan, though.”

  She frowned, and he watched her work through his statement, and Hasryan’s absence yesterday. She would reach the right conclusion. No one could hide much from her quick brains, and Larryn had long ago stopped trying to conceal painful truths from her. Still, his heart twisted whenever she threw one back at him.

  “Something happened, and the guards won’t let you see him if you look like one of us.”