The elixir of inheritanc.., p.23
The Elixir of Inheritance, page 23
Ibram thought that must be the other way around, but didn’t mention it. He nodded to his aunt instead. “Have you done so before?”
She nodded, a quick up and down jerk of her chin. “There’s nothing you won’t do in Lady Azadiya’s service, if you manage to stick around long enough,” she said. “Look at me, fifty miles from the prow of a ship and on dry land. There used to be a man lived down by the imperial border, had a lively business transporting the unlawfully dead in fish barrels. Almost had to contract with the Abyss to keep him contained.”
“That’s terrible!” Ahksell exclaimed.
“Comes of dishonest dealings, Solari,” she said. “You air your ill humor in the street, and it gets mud on your boots.”
Ibram turned his grin down at his boots as they walked further along the road, so that Amita Sarrha wouldn’t smack him for frivolity. He cleared his throat and raised his head to gaze at the sky, feeling the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. Ahksell knocked into him again, and he poked him back.
They were coming up on the bend in the road just beyond the last rise. Ibram could see the pointed peak of the central pillar holding the guest pavilion up. They stepped off the road to avoid an oncoming hand cart, and onto the soft grass.
“Anyway, the principle need is the same,” Amita Sarrha said. “What did you find in the study?”
“Ledgers and bad poetry,” Ibram said.
She nodded. “Bad poetry? Whose?”
“Savoldyn’s,” Ahksell said. “There was a small fortune in wooden slat scrolls on his shelves.”
“And he’d been losing money on his journeys,” Ibram said. “It was the strangest thing. He kept applying for permits to shorter and shorter trips.”
“His wife in good clothing?” she asked.
“Expensive fabric, nothing worn,” Ibram said. “The castoffs her servant wears aren’t very old.”
“Loss of business, a household to maintain,” Amita Sarrha mused, “and an expensive hobby. Not many can afford that.” Amita Sarrha stopped walking; she smiled lopsidedly. “But there is no poison in the shay.”
“Ibram didn’t watch him drink everything he might have consumed during the day,” Ahksell said quickly. “He could have had it at any other time.”
“So we must ask them who would profit most from the death,” she said. “Now, you see, this is how you catch a man with something to reveal. What’s the first lesson, Ib-la?”
Ibram swallowed heavily. “A body wants to talk, especially when being complimented.”
“A truth as solid as water in the north,” Amita Sarrha said.
“But that’s just a trick!” Ahksell exclaimed.
She shrugged. “We’re but arms-for-hire, Solari, making our way in a deceitful world. Tricks are dead useful.”
“How can I help then?” Ahksell asked.
“No need for aid,” she said, and eyed him carefully. “It’s an agent’s job, not an alchemist’s.”
“He’s already involved,” Ibram said. “Why can’t he keep his ears open?”
“He butted in without Ladyship’s permission,” Amita Sarrha said. “Which none of us ought to do if we can possibly help it.”
“Well, you can’t run a Hessele’s Cage by yourselves,” Ahksell said.
“Though we still need him because what if they explain something about his humors or the animus?” Ibram asked quickly. “I never paid attention at the Bedris school, everyone knows that.”
“What I care about,” she said, holding up one hand, “is finding out the correlation between the body, and the current debacle. Now, we shall escort the Ignalles back down to Viran. Consider this practice, Ibram. I want to know more about these two by the time we return to the command tent than they do about themselves.”
“And after that?” Ibram cleared his throat of the rock lodged within it. “What are you going to tell Amota Viran?”
“What would I need to tell him?” she asked. “Do I work for him? No, I do not. I merely make my own way.”
She waved them both forward to the pavilion and began walking on her own. They hurried to catch up. It was a short distance, not even fifty feet away, but Ibram’s racing mind skipped from his pleasantries to the Ignalles and their clerics, to his own predicament, to Ladyship still up in her tower, and then to Amita Sarrha.
“Yes, of course,” Mistress Ignalle was saying. “We are only too happy to have this sorry circumstance explained to us.”
“Right this way, then,” Ibram said. His attention caught on the velvet flower sewn above the bow on Mistress Ignalle’s shoulder. Her loose yellow robe was also velvet, and still done in the southern style, but it lacked the fasteners for sleeves. Most southern dresses that closed at the shoulders were pinned by golden hinge brooches or filigree clasps, not cheaper fabric ties. Perhaps the shoddy house was not the only place the Ignalles saved money.
The whole party—husband, wife, pilot and bo’sun—accompanied them back down the hill. Ibram didn’t have much time, if he wasn’t to fail Amita Sarrha. If she thought he was slacking on the job, running in circles would be the least of his worries.
“I didn’t get the chance before, Mistress Ignalle,” Ahksell said, and Ibram forced himself to pay attention. “But may I express my deepest sympathies for the loss of your father?”
“I thank you, Attendant,” Mistress Ignalle said, and touched the white cap on her head. “I confess it was a surprise.”
“It always is, when a parent dies,” her husband spoke up beside her. He had a pleasant, smooth kind of voice. They were dressed in a similar style, as was the fashion for monied couples. His yellow coat was of the same crushed velvet, and beneath it, his blue robe brushed leather boots. “I found myself quite shocked, even though the old man had been drinking since before I ever knew him. I take it, however, that something is amiss?”
“Why would you say that?” Ibram asked, and tucked his hair behind his ears.
Master Ignalle turned his head to blink in surprise at him. “Why else would we be here?” he asked, and lifted one hand to the air. He had a studied manner about him; Ibram narrowed his eyes. “I would never presume to think the Sect of Seven Fires would disturb a corpse’s journey to the pyre without good reason.”
“And it had better be a very good reason,” Pilot Joundir interrupted. He was a peevish sort, with a bald head beneath his square yellow cap. His silent bo’sun trailed at his elbow. “Master Savoldyn’s wishes upon his death were very clear to us at the Ark. I will not have his soul’s journey derailed on an alchemical whim!”
Amita Sarrha dropped a step behind to keep pace with the clerics, leaving Ahksell and Ibram to bracket the Ignalles. She smoothed her hand down her sect brooch. Her eyes rested on Ibram; at her side, her hand revolved in a clear gesture to get on with it.
“Hardly that,” Ibram said, keeping the Ignalles in the corner of his vision. “Are you well acquainted with his wishes, Pilot Joundir?”
“I am,” he acknowledged. “As a dedicated soul, Master Savoldyn placed his will into our keeping, with the particulars to be dispensed after his death. We held it in trust once it had been duly recorded in the Hall of Records in the Bureau of Commerce.”
“So when his widow comes out of seclusion, she’ll be joining the family for the pyre?” Ibram asked.
Mistress Ignalle’s face twisted briefly, as if she had scented something foul. “I suppose she must,” she said. “Though the world knows nothing good will come out of it for her.”
“All the better,” Pilot Joundir said with a heavy tone. “To bind oneself to another without hope of reward, but in true feeling.”
Her lips pursed very tightly together; her cheeks flushed. Ibram had a feeling that if circumstances had been different, Mistress Ignalle’s tongue would not have been so firmly held behind her teeth. Her husband sighed faintly, and looked out over the training fields to the lightly cloudy sky overhead.
“I suppose that’s so,” Ibram said, and tilted his head upwards a bit. “I’m afraid I was away when the business occurred, but you might be a finer example of that, eh, Mistress?”
“I?” Mistress Ignalle startled, and then ducked her head with a pleased smile. “I suppose we must be, are we not, Dima?”
Her husband’s polite smile turned indulgently in her direction. “Indeed so, Elene,” he murmured, and then he glanced up. “You weren’t here for the scandal, then, Master Ucalegon?”
Over both their heads, Ahksell opened his eyes wide and shook his head. Ibram pressed onward, conscious of the shortness of the road before them. There was a chance they would be allowed back into the tent, but it was far more likely that the Amota Viran would order them away again.
“I was not,” Ibram said. “Though my younger sister was in raptures about it upon my return. I feel I missed quite the adventure.”
“They chased us all the way to the river crossing,” Mistress Ignalle said, with a laugh. “but I tossed a basket out of the window of the carriage. It startled the riders’ horses, and we were able to get across the north bridge with no one to catch us!”
Master Ignalle shook his head, grinning. “And then it was a seven-day of hiding under assumed names until her father’s arms-for-hire stopped watching for us.”
“They told Father I must have already taken ship!”
They really were quite proud of themselves. The entirety of their demeanor had changed, from a studied mourning to a bright and eager recounting. Ibram watched the way their bodies turned inward towards each other as they linked arms, the luster in their eyes as they spoke. Ibram looked over to Ahksell, and saw his own surprise echoed there. An elopement begetting a disinheritance no doubt fathered further humiliations, yet there they walked, blithely unconcerned about what this death meant for their next round of friendly village inspection. No one blessed with their full complement of wits was that much in love.
Ibram whistled lowly, and kept his own smile as charming as he could make it. Which was fairly charming, in his own estimation. He felt a little more solid on his feet now.
“What a to-do,” he said. “I congratulate you on your success.”
Mistress Ignalle turned her head at that, all easy smiles, and then suddenly sobered. She coughed and squeezed her husband’s arm. “Yes, well,” she said. “It was years ago now, and I don’t regret it a moment. Only…only what followed.”
She sniffled, and removed a handkerchief from her husband’s sleeve, and then pressed it below her nose. It sounded true enough, though her sudden turns of feeling felt a bit abrupt. But then, again, people couldn’t only be unhappy during their grief. There had to be room for the rest of life as well, as it continued. He glanced down at her shoes as Mistress Ignalle kicked a stone from her path. They were made from fabric, and the right side of the sole had been previously mended. Ibram nodded and let his smile turn sympathetic.
“It was quite a fight I interrupted,” he said, leaning forward as if there was no one else to hear.
“Such a stubborn man,” she said, a real trace of impatience in her voice now. “When Mother died there was no padding between us, and it simply got worse whenever he refused to listen.” She dabbed her face with the handkerchief again, and then wrapped it in her hand. She wistfully eyed the training fields and the Learners twisting through their meditative poses. “I used to come up the living mountain as a child, you know. Such a beautiful place”
“I had heard you visited,” Ibram said. He hadn’t until just now, but it still counted.
She smiled at him. “Mother had no other family, and the sect has several of her family’s glasswork. She used to come and advise the artisans…allowed me to follow along and learn to negotiate.” She shook her head. “Father never seemed to think much of my lessons.”
“But you kept trying,” Ahksell said. “That’s what I—that’s what’s important.”
Ibram’s eyebrows drew together, but Ahksell had turned his face suddenly, and all he saw was the edge of his jaw. He made note of the slip, and set it aside for a later time. The Ignalles were nodding along, after all.
“Yes, indeed,” Mistress Ignalle said. “There’s no such thing as a closed negotiation.”
“You were negotiating?” Ibram asked.
She stumbled a little. “Oh, a rock—my apologies, Master Ucalegon, I didn’t hear that?”
“You said there was no such thing as a closed negotiation,” he replied. “I did not know you were still involved in your father’s trade.” He laughed. “Rumor proves us wrong again, to be sure!”
Master Ignalle shook his head. “No, Master Savoldyn never allowed my wife to regain her responsibilities in the family business.”
They walked down past the first row of tents and the fire pit where some of the other sect agents were gathered. Stories were clearly being told in the proper fashion, with a handheld drum and a small set of bells. A group of tiny Learners—young enough to still be housed in Bedris—sat at their feet, rapt.
“That must have been very difficult,” Ibram said to keep their attention. “Mistress Dolman spoke quite highly of your dedication, Mistress Ignalle.”
“Did she?” Master Ignalle spoke for his wife again. “Dolman’s always been a silent support.”
Mistress Ignalle’s smile had more of a wince in it. She sighed. “I had hoped she would come with me, when Father turned the servants all out, but he kept her, so she stayed.”
“Did you retain many of the servants?” Ahksell asked.
“No,” she said. “The needs of our house are—quite different.”
Ibram took another look at their clothing. It was of good cloth, but the embroidery was only thread. Mistress Ignalle’s jewelry was fit to her previous station, but nothing new. Ibram had seen the set at their first meeting. Someone as particular of their appearance as she seemed to be would more likely take care to switch out her pieces along with her clothing. A woman capable of paying her own marriage fee in full would have a chest of jewels and clothes—especially one attached to a fabric business. Perhaps she had blown the lot on that wedding in Delbrite, or sold an heirloom, if she didn’t have money of her own. Hilo Kenes had mentioned that some of Mistress Ignalle’s mother’s glass had come to her after the woman had died, perhaps those glass bracelets were all she had left.
“Did you know him well, Master Ignalle?” he asked.
They were approaching the open awning of Amota Viran’s tent. Ibram could see several sect agents he didn’t recognize standing guard outside it. He frowned.
Ignalle sighed and shook his head. “I did not,” he said. “We had some few dealings with each other, when I was commissioning fabric for my investment robes in the Bureau of Commerce.”
“That was how we met,” Mistress Ignalle said, and resettled her arm woven through her husband’s. He patted her hand.
“What office do you inhabit?” Ahksell asked.
“I hold a small position in the office of market rights.”
“Oh, well,” Amita Sarrha said with a laugh. “So it’s you we have to thank for all the little stalls crowding Lityen at the moment.”
Ignalle smiled politely, but Ibram saw no answering pleasantry in his eyes. “As to that, Mistress,” he said. “I am afraid that is beyond my level. I am attached to the head clerk for travel.”
Ahksell’s eyebrows shot up so high they met his hairline. He opened his mouth, and Ibram shook his head quickly. He smiled at Mistress Ignalle, hopefully the exchange was too quick for her notice.
“He has a most elegant hand,” Mistress Ignalle said. “The clearest in the office. I can only hope our daughter has his skill when she grows up.”
“May all the bells ring out for it,” Ibram said.
She seemed a little unsure, but nodded pleasantly. They had arrived at the tent. Ibram moved forward to the front. The two agents on either side of the opening frowned at him.
“As instructed,” Ibram announced. “Master and Mistress Ignalle, Pilot Joundir and, er, his Bo’sun to see the Third Mentor.”
He could see past them into the tent, and felt his mouth drop open a bit before he recalled his dignity. Third Mentor Nieminen worked quickly. Second Mentor Stadat now sat tall at the head of the table, flanked by herself on the left. Amota Viran was nowhere to be seen. Ibram caught the Second Mentor’s steely eye, and froze for a crucial second, before bowing with his hands on his stomach.
“Not to worry,” Stadat’s voice boomed out from the tent, loud as a clap in an empty room. He seemed as overly friendly as ever with his smile just lingering on the far side of manic. His hair stuck out at angles around his head, framing his gaunt face and staring eyes. “Duty done! That will be all, Agent. Take our wayward Attendant back to his duties, and let these good people in!”
Ibram straightened immediately, and stepped back without turning his back. He moved to the side, and let the Ignalles, Joundir and the Bo’sun pass him by. He breathed in quickly as Amita Sarrha also went into the tent. She was a great one for Ladyship’s standing orders on asking forgiveness, rather than requesting permission.
“Find Viran,” she ordered quietly before she had crossed the threshold and the strange agent dropped the tent door between them.
Ibram glanced at him up and down. He was of middle-age with lank curls for hair and a thin mustache. His loose pants and tunic made him seem like a lost plainsman after a missing mouflon. The man opened his mouth as if he had something to say, and Ahksell cleared his throat. Ibram smiled tightly.
“Back to your duties, now, Attendant,” he called out. “Job done, after all. Let me show you the quick path.”
Ahksell’s face was a courteous blank as they walked away from the tent and back onto the road. Ahksell opened his mouth, but Ibram shook his head. He led Ahksell to where the agents and Learners were telling stories, and then ducked down the opposite side of the group.
“Ibram!” Ahksell hissed.
Ibram twisted briefly to look behind himself and shushed him. They took the path through the tents set up close to each other, the servants with the mending and the Attendants piping some kind of concoction directly into the eyes of an overly trusting patient. They wove their way around and backtracked to the command tent; its canvas sides ruffled in the wind. Ibram sidled between it and the tent closest next to it. There was enough room to walk through, but as long as the wind didn’t pick up and press the canvas against their bodies, there was more than ample space for an interested ear, or four.
