City of Strife Read online

  Isra cursed behind him, healthy fear underlying her voice for once. Nevian spun as her body shrank. Wings sprouted from her back, her fingers turning into talons barely large enough to hold her purchase bag. Wide pupils narrowed into a slit, her round nose and mouth lengthened into a beak, and her hair shifted to a great brown mane before changing into feathers. From human to hawk in a few smooth seconds … then she took flight. Ditching him. Nevian followed Isra’s animal form as she rose to the nearest bridge, too shocked to say a word. She was supposed to shoulder the blame!

  A strong hand grabbed his wrist and pulled. Nevian’s surprised yelp died on his lips as he met Avenazar’s dark and angry eyes, which promised painful retribution. Energy accumulated in his master’s palm, ready to be released.

  “I hope you have an excellent explanation, you ingrate.”

  No justification would satisfy Master Avenazar, not from him. Nevian struggled with his growing panic, reining in his urge to jerk out of his master’s grasp and run. What would be the point? Instead, he cast his gaze down and stopped moving, knowing any other reaction would make his situation worse. His jaws worked until he could utter a single word.

  “Isra—”

  Avenazar unleashed his magic before Nevian could say more. The energy dug into his nerves, sending a wave of searing pain up his arm and into his brain. Nevian gasped, and his legs gave out. He fell to his knees, allowing Avenazar to look down on him. Might have been the point, Nevian thought in his daze. Avenazar preferred not to be reminded of his height.

  “I said no magic, yet here you are. You used a cleaning spell, disobeying my express orders and opting instead for frivolous gallivanting in the city. How can I trust you with dangerous spells if you cannot follow simple instructions?”

  Nevian choked. Had Avenazar really suggested something as ridiculous as him ‘gallivanting’? He had no time to waste on light entertainment. Even without Avenazar’s endless tasks, Nevian would use every minute of his day to study. Not all apprentices flung golden opportunities to become masters away.

  “I cast nothing,” Nevian said. “I swear Isra came and—”

  Once again, Avenazar cut his explanation short with a jolt of energy. The magic coursed through his muscles. Bright spots obscured his vision. It hurt. Every inch, every fibre, every ounce of him. A long whimper escaped Nevian’s lips despite his best efforts. His ears rang, making it hard to hear Avenazar’s shrill voice.

  “She doesn’t decide for you. I don’t care what she did, or when. You were in charge of that floor, of cleaning it with the brush I gave you, and instead you came here.” He crouched a little, bringing himself eye-to-eye with his apprentice. “I expected better, Nevian, and you know how I hate to be disappointed.”

  Tears rolled down Nevian’s cheeks. Everyone had cleared the small square, too afraid to intervene. Avenazar wore his Myrian robes, and Isandor’s residents knew not to mess with a powerful spellcaster from their Empire. In the two years since the enclave’s crew had arrived as envoys, they had gained major political influence and a fearsome reputation. Nevian would get no help from citizens. Or from anyone. Who would dare to antagonize Avenazar? The young mage clenched his teeth, steeling himself. He had to weather the torture without provoking Avenazar any further. His master enjoyed sneaking into other people’s minds and sifting through memories, but that might spell Nevian’s death. The wrong flashback witnessed by Master Avenazar, and he’d expose Nevian’s nightly activities.

  If a clean floor could cause such fury, what agony would Master Avenazar inflict on him once he discovered Nevian slipped out of the enclave and traded information for magical training?

  So he endured, knowing he’d pass out from the pain eventually, knowing he’d be unable to study tonight, knowing Avenazar might decide to make him clean again out of spite. None of it compared to what awaited him should his master learn the secrets Nevian hid from him.

  “Master Avenazar. What an unpleasant surprise!”

  The pain stopped, interrupted by a melodic voice. It had barely pierced the haze of Nevian’s mind. He crumpled to the ground, gasping for air, shaking and confused. Who? They’d said ‘unpleasant’. What a terrible idea. Nevian wanted to warn them, beg them not to push the matter, but Master Avenazar was still holding his wrist, ready to start again anytime.

  “I must agree, Lord Dathirii,” Avenazar said. “What could possibly bring an important elf such as yourself to these lowly parts of town?”

  Nevian knew better than to trust Avenazar’s pleasant tone. His master disliked interruptions even more than he disliked disappointments. The young mage glanced at the fool who had committed this horrible mistake. A middle-aged elf stood in the plaza, hands clasped behind his back. He wore a forest-green doublet, and his golden hair tumbled to his shoulders, kept out of his face by two braids. Instead of worry, he displayed confidence, his smile bringing about small crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes.

  “My business is my own. I am glad to have stumbled upon you at this moment, however.” The elf’s green eyes caught Nevian’s for a split second—the time it took for Nevian to lower his gaze, his heart hammering. Lord Dathirii was an important noble in Isandor. What if Avenazar believed they knew each other? How much worse would everything get? Nevian wished the elf would disappear. Leave before it ended badly. Instead of listening to Nevian’s silent wisdom, Lord Dathirii dared to order Avenazar. “Let him go.”

  Sudden magic jerked through Nevian’s body. He gasped, sparks flying before his eyes. His apprentice’s robes clung to his sweaty back.

  “Absolutely not,” Avenazar said, firm but pleasant.

  Lord Dathirii’s footsteps grew closer. He stopped a single stride away and stared down at Avenazar, using his height to make the Myrian wizard feel even tinier. Another bad idea. Would this lord ever leave them be?

  “Isandor is a civilized city, and its laws forbid such an assault. You may have convinced the lords and ladies of the Golden Table to declare the enclave grounds Myrian territory, ruled by Myrian laws, but as long as you stand in our streets and bridges, you will abide by our laws. Let him go or I will have you jailed.”

  Avenazar cackled, then he grabbed a handful of Nevian’s hair and pulled on it, forcing him to look up. “Hear that, Nevian? The good lord doesn’t like to see his precious city sullied and wants us to go play elsewhere.”

  The elf’s horrified gasp drew an irritated groan from Nevian. Had he really believed he could stop Avenazar? Every delay Lord Dathirii imposed on the punishment would make it worse. He couldn’t help—which didn’t keep him from trying.

  “No, I—”

  “You were quite clear, milord,” interrupted Avenazar. “As long as I’m not in your precious city …”

  He forced Nevian to stand. The elven lord straightened, his jaws tight. Nevian almost pleaded him to let it go, but he didn’t dare speak in front of Avenazar. Or even in front of Lord Dathirii. A dangerous fire lit his eyes, a scary determination to see this conflict through to the end.

  “You’re an affront to decency.”

  “Again, Lord Dathirii? How often have we discussed this in the last two years? Always, you go on about one’s moral obligations to other human beings, as if I cared for your naive admonitions. The Myrian Empire doesn’t thrive on goodwill.”

  “No, it prospers through the widespread and inhuman trading of slaves.” Angry red coloured Lord Dathirii’s cheeks now. “How many do you keep hidden behind your enclave’s walls?”

  A dozen, Nevian thought, if not more. All of Isbari descent, their skin golden to brown, keeping out of sight as much as work would allow. High Priest Daramond—the only free Isbari in the enclave—might know how many. Nevian wouldn’t be surprised if he could name them all.

  “They’re not hidden,” Avenazar said. “You can visit them anytime, milord! I’m sure your concern will please them.”

  “I’ve had enough,” Lord Dathirii said, and indeed Nevian could hear the anger boiling under his tight v
oice, barely restrained. “Don’t think you’re safe. We’ve tolerated your presence for too long.”

  “Is that a threat, Lord Dathirii?” Avenazar asked.

  “It is.” A weight sank to the bottom of Nevian’s stomach. He didn’t know the elf, and now he never would. This lord had a death wish; for himself, his entire family, and anyone else he loved. He would end the same way Sauria had: tortured and broken by Avenazar. Yet Lord Dathirii kept going, adding one layer of insult after another. “I don’t care if you have the economic might of Myria behind you. Isandor isn’t part of your corrupt empire, and I will die before I let you crush us under your boot.”

  Master Avenazar clapped his hands together with another sharp laugh. “What a wonderful challenge! Who knows, you might get your wish. Thank you for the warning, Lord Dathirii. I will look forward to your pathetic attempts at hindering us. For now, however, I must go on with my disgraceful life.”

  Nevian closed his eyes as he heard the first arcane words of a teleportation spell. An invisible force pulled at his body, and his surroundings blurred. Lord Dathirii seemed to blink in and out several times, but the apprentice knew better: they were the ones fading. Isandor’s shadowed plaza vanished, replaced by the very floor Nevian should’ve been scrubbing. Before he could utter a word, Avenazar flung him to the ground.

  “You and I have to talk, my dear apprentice,” he said. “Something about assault and abuse, I believe.”

  Avenazar shoved his palms against Nevian’s chest, unleashing his power with renewed rage. The magic went straight to Nevian’s head, ripping through his consciousness as he sprawled out with a scream.

  Jaeger glanced up from the redaction of his formal letters when the door to his office slammed shut. As Diel Dathirii’s personal steward and secretary, he sometimes stood outside to ensure unwelcome visitors never reached the Head of the Dathirii House. Diel had gone into the Lower City, however, and Jaeger had hoped to use the spare time to knock a few things off his long list of tasks. The brutal sound snapped his concentration, but as he noticed who had walked in, Jaeger’s stern reproach died on his lips, his mouth turning a little dry.

  The door slammer was Diel himself. He stood at the entrance, panting, his fists clenched at his side. Wild strands of golden hair escaped his braids’ hold, crowning him, and his cheeks had a rosy colour. Either it was windy outside—nothing surprising there, for a city perched on a cliff and built ever-upward—or he had been running. The latter, Jaeger guessed. Diel’s short breath, fiery gaze, and grimace convinced his secretary something had happened. The longer Jaeger stared, the more he ached to kiss the smile back onto his lips. Diel pinched his nose, then let out a frustrated groan.

  “How do such horrible people live with themselves? This is ridiculous!”

  He threw his hands up with another angry cry, and Jaeger struggled to maintain his neutral expression. He wanted to stride to Diel, wrap his arms around him, and hold him until he simmered down. After a hundred years with him, however, Jaeger knew the other elf would go from silent, frustrated huffing to emptying his heart. The steward clasped his hands behind his back and waited.

  “How can you stay so calm, Jaeger?” Diel paced forward, sharp movements punctuating his words. “He mocks our laws, our lifestyle, the core principles toward which I’m trying to push this city! He thinks he can bully us until we give in! He won’t stop at worming his way into financial control of half the Golden Table. I’m not going to let him piss on everything I love anymore. ‘Naive admonitions’? Listen to him, using words bigger than he is! Don’t you want to throw him out, too?”

  Jaeger allowed a moment to slide by. Most of the time, Diel did not expect answers to his rants. When you offered him a chance to go on and he stopped, however, it meant his enquiry warranted a response. This one obviously did. Diel was staring at him, hoping Jaeger would share in his fury.

  “Hard to say, milord,” he said. “I have my suspicions, but perhaps if you told me who we’re talking about …”

  “Oh.” For a moment Diel seemed confused, then a smile curved his lips. He laughed and ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “I did it again, didn’t I? You’re so often by my side, silent and faithful, I imagine you witness everything.”

  Jaeger wished he did, but if he followed Lord Dathirii to all his appointments, he would never get the paperwork done. Someone needed to keep track of schedules, organize the household, and write the official letters while Diel met with nobles and merchants. They formed an efficient team because they could rely on each other, trusting their counterpart to do their job.

  “Then I apologize for not being present this time.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  Jaeger frowned. He was not being silly. Something had upset Diel, and Jaeger hated when he missed an occasion to support him. Seeing Diel distressed sent tiny needles through his stomach. Jaeger went around his desk and put his hand on Diel’s upper arm. The other elf’s shoulders sagged as he relaxed.

  “Tell me what happened, milord,” Jaeger said.

  A mischievous smile curved Diel’s lips. “Only if you stop calling me that.”

  “Milord?” Jaeger hadn’t needed to ask. They’d first had this argument a century ago, and it resurfaced every now and then, more as a joke than a real conflict. Despite Jaeger’s adamant insistence on proper titles, Diel always tried to make him stop. The discussion unfolded the same way every time, but Jaeger enjoyed the banter too much to give in. “I’m afraid I’ll have to live on without knowing, then, milord.”

  Diel laughed, the clear and melodic sound music to Jaeger’s ears. It eased his worry, spreading a warm feeling inside him. The steward smiled, certain he had won again, until Diel surprised him by sliding his fingers across Jaeger’s cheek and into his dark hair. “You always go on about what’s proper and what’s not, but …” Diel pulled Jaeger closer, green eyes shining with amusement, and kissed him. The steward relaxed, enjoyed the slight spice of Diel’s cologne and the caress of fingers on his neck. “I’m not hearing any protests now.”

  “I was unaware my kisses constituted an insult to your station, your family, or your person.” He kept his tone contrived, despite knowing that wasn’t Diel’s point at all. Horror flashed through his companion’s delicate features.

  “Of course not! I didn’t mean—”

  “Oh! Then I see no contradiction in my actions, milord.” Jaeger squared his shoulders and allowed a victorious smile to peek through his otherwise professional mask. “Besides, I enjoy the twitch in your eyebrows every time I use the proper title too much to let it go.”

  Diel gave him a playful shove. “Damn you. You always win these arguments. And I need your help with this, so I have to tell you what happened.”

  “I know.”

  Jaeger clasped his hands behind his back, and Diel rewarded his little smirk with another push. The truth was, Lord Dathirii never worked alone. He had hired Jaeger before he became Head of the House, but even before the steward’s arrival, Diel had relied on his sister and cousins a lot. He was at the heart of a close-knit family where every member had a role to fulfill. The Dathirii elves formed one of the six founding merchant Houses of Isandor, and while most human Houses rose and fell through the decades, they had endured with substantial wealth and influence. They had all been playing the games, trades, and politics for longer than most nobles stayed alive—even the youngest Dathirii had almost twenty years of solid experience. They were a team, and if every elf was a different muscle in the body, then Jaeger was their nerves, transmitting the signal.

  And what a signal it was.

  Lord Diel Dathirii had inherited the mantle from his father and promptly broken from his conservative ways. It had taken a lot of arguing with other family members, immense passion and stubbornness, but he’d put an end to trade agreements exploiting labour in distant regions of the world—a staple of most of Isandor’s powerful families, even today—then developed new partnerships with local merchants. Thei
r considerable wealth had stalled, but Diel preferred his money clean. It wasn’t rare for certain cousins—always the same—to complain that they could be at the top of the city’s hierarchy and own more than half the Golden Table without this nonsense. The rest of the family agreed it was better to have fewer seats if it meant resisting immoral practices, however. And so when Jaeger asked again who had ruined Diel’s afternoon, he was not surprised by the answer.

  “Master Avenazar, from the Myrian Enclave.”

  Jaeger’s stomach churned anyway. They had watched the Myrians get a foothold in this city with dread, knowing this confrontation would come. The Myrian Empire needed to go through Isandor to trade with most of the northeastern regions, and two years ago, they had sent Master Avenazar to establish an outpost on the outskirts of the city. The wizard had confirmed the Empire’s reputation: ruthless enemies, shrewd tacticians, unapologetic slavers. He’d concluded several substantial trade deals with major houses in Isandor, using the Empire’s wealth to rise as an important economic power. Lord Dathirii would only tolerate them so long before he provoked a trading war.

  ‘So long’ had lasted two years—a record for Diel.

  Three sharp knocks at the door interrupted their conversation. Diel called for the newcomer to enter, and in walked Lord Kellian Dathirii. One of Diel’s cousins, Kellian had inherited the golden hair typical to the Dathirii family and kept it tied in a loose ponytail. He could barely claim two inches above five feet, but his muscular build and cat-like agility made sure no one mistook him for a harmless soldier. Most days he wore the Dathirii ceremonial armour, but this time only the sword hung by his side. It bore the family crest: a silver D on a green background. Kellian stopped after two strides, then stood straight and waited for permission to speak. Jaeger enjoyed his discipline and respect of etiquette—qualities sorely lacking in most others.

  “You sent?” Kellian asked at a sign from Lord Dathirii.

  “Drop everything you’re working on,” Diel answered.