Called to account, p.27
Called to Account, page 27
Hamon thought she was laying it on a bit thick, and he felt sorry for Flaccus. But then the stupid little man opened his mouth and destroyed any sense of sympathy that Hamon had.
“I understand that, Prefect Faustina, but I have the power to revoke your license for irregularities. It seems to me that there is an awful lot of money flowing through your bank, going here and there.” He grinned. “It seems to me that if some of that money found its way here,” he pointed to his desk, “then I might be persuaded to ignore everything else you’re doing.”
The stupid ass was actually trying to solicit a bribe from a hillichmagnar. Hamon gave a polite cough and said, “I really don’t think you want to try that, Mr. Flaccus.”
“I think ten aurei would do,” Flaccus went on, heedless of the danger. “Ten per month. And if you’ve got all those wonderful friends at court, I think you really ought to put in a good word for me. There’s a job in Albus Magnus that’s open, and I’m sure that if I had the backing of Prefect Faustina and Legate—”
Moira lunged forward and leaned over his desk, sending a cascade of parchment scrolls onto the floor. “Let me be clear. I have ridden more than a thousand miles and back. All I want to do is go have some food and then a hot bath and then maybe, if we’re both not too tired, some excellent sex with my new lover here,” she pointed to Hamon, then reached out and rested a hand on Flaccus’s cheek.
“And I can say whatever I like right now,” she continued, “because you’re never going to remember this. You’re going to write out an official warrant ending your investigation into us, and you’re going to seal it. And then, in return for letting you keep your balls, you will report to me once a week on what your superiors in the Treasury are doing.”
Hamon didn’t hear the words of the spell, but he saw how Flaccus’s eyes rolled back for a second, and even though Hamon was not in the direct path, he still felt a powerful sense of calm and contentment settle over him. This was all perfectly right, he thought, and Moira wasn’t doing anything more than what Flaccus deserved. In fact, the Vice-Tribune, he thought, deserved much worse, and for a few moments, Hamon longed for Moira to tell him to kill Flaccus, so he could prove his loyalty to her.
Soon, they had the sealed warrant in hand and they beat a hasty, triumphant retreat, leaving a stammering, drunken-looking Flaccus alone to restore order to his office. The effects of the spell wore off Hamon gradually, and by the time he and Moira were halfway through their meal at a little Brigantian restaurant around the corner, he ventured to ask exactly what she had done to Flaccus.
“A calming spell,” she answered, “but a very, very powerful one. It may affect his mind permanently, in fact. Although, if it does, it will simply make him a bit more cheerful and tolerant.” She took a sip of wine. “It’s the sort of thing they’d call ‘dark magy’ up at Diernemynster, but I don’t see anything wrong with it under the circumstances.”
He took her hand. “Do you mind if I ask...if you ever used a spell like that on me?”
“Not quite so strong, but yes, I did.”
He hadn’t expected her to be quite so bluntly honest about it. “Oh...well, would you be offended if I asked that you never use magy on me again?”
She took his collar and gently pulled him closer across the table. “You’re only asking that because I haven’t shown you what else magy can do...in the bedroom.”
“Like what?”
“I guess you’ll never find out, will you?” she said, smirking.
Even before they got back to her house, he had broken down and told her that he didn’t mind in the least if she used magy on him, as long as she asked first.
Chapter 35
Once the treasure was found and locked away, there was little reason for Presley to remain in Rawdon. The list of nobles to receive or lose lands and titles had nearly been completed, and the wedding arrangements between Alice and Earl William Trevelyan settled.
Rohesia had some choice words to say about the treasure situation, but assured him that, “I can handle it on my own. Grigory misses you, no doubt, and Lady Jorunn might become more amenable without you participating. Since you live in the Empire and you were found at the treasure with Vittoria, Lady Jorunn refuses to believe you are not working on Faustinus’s behalf.”
Presley could see her point, and so he left her to complete the settlement of the treasure, Edwin’s coronation, and even the bank paperwork. On that last item, he did write a long letter to Paul Broward, his old assistant who was now at the Treasury keeping Aldrick on track. Paul would see the sense of Faustinus’s bank, and therefore, manage the red tape on Faustinus’s behalf.
So, with everything as settled as he could make it, he set off for home.
The journey was a quick one, although more reasonably paced than when he had come to Myrcia with Vittoria. This time, he took a carriage, but also saw no reason not to take advantage of Vittoria’s hard work on the postrider stations to change his horses. After all, had his logistical support not been enlisted to set up the stations? I am enjoying the fruits of my labors. As it should be.
And finally he pulled into the gravel drive leading up to his front door on a blustery, early December day. It was the beginning of a new week, and he assumed Grigory would be at campus. As he climbed out of the carriage, he weighed the benefits of heading to Grigory’s office and kicking out any students who might be so impertinent as to need help so he could smother Grigory with all the kisses they had missed over the past several weeks, versus crawling into bed and sleeping until Grigory returned home. As much as he longed for his bed and wanted to be rested for Grigory, the idea of waiting was too horrible. He would wash his face and put on a clean shirt while his own carriage was readied.
But it wasn’t one of his servants who opened the front door, but Grigory himself. He looked marvelous—as tall and handsome as the first time Presley had seen him decades before. And he was in his favorite comfortable black trousers and old wool tunic with the cuffs that had been patched a dozen times. It was as if—
“You were waiting for me,” Presley said, pulling Grigory into a hug.
“Lily sent a note last night,” Grigory answered after kissing Presley’s temple. “She had word from the last postrider station, and she said you should be getting home today. I cancelled my classes.”
“You are brilliant.” Presley leaned back enough to look into Grigory’s lovely blue eyes. “But I’ve always known that.” They kissed softly, and Presley could feel all the tension from the past months about missing treasures and banks and unhappy weddings and endless travel just drain away. “Let’s go inside.”
“And now who is the brilliant one?”
NEITHER OF THEM HAD any urge to get out of bed until the sun had vanished, and they realized they had both missed lunch and couldn’t also forgo supper. Luckily, Grigory had planned ahead and had food delivered that morning. “I would have gone shopping myself, but I was terrified of not being here when you arrived.” The food was simple—cheese and bread and meat that could be served cold. And cinnamon rolls. They were not as good as those from their favorite bakery back in Leornian, but they were something they loved to share.
With this feast transported on a tray back into the bedroom, they curled up next to each other in soft robes and ate in bed. Grigory shared stories of his students and the petty bickering of the faculty. Presley explained first the missing treasure and then the wedding arrangements for Alice and William Trevelyan.
“She asked why she didn’t get to choose who she spent her life with. That even I had been able to choose you.” Presley leaned over and kissed Grigory on the cheek. “And as much as Myrcia needs this marriage to prevent Aldrick from pressing to become captain general, she isn’t wrong. I really do fear that I have helped to make her miserable, and she will never forgive me or her mother.”
Grigory wrapped an arm around Presley, pulling him close. “She is an intelligent young lady, yes? She will understand. You are not to blame, and they may turn out to be happy. We should have faith in Earstien.”
Presley tried to smile and match Grigory’s optimism, but his essential nature was too doubtful. “I hope you are right. But I have a feeling that deciding they will live in Wealdan Castle with the rest of the family will not be the end of the issues with that marriage.”
After that, they switched to the bank and the new, extensive postrider system Faustinus and the Prefecturate were developing. Presley remained furious at Faustinus for trying to claim the stolen treasure so that he might sell it back to Edwin. Grigory agreed, but as was his wont, he tried to impute better motives to a friend than the friend deserved. “I am sure he would just have used the stolen objects to assure the Immani Treasury would approve his bank. He would not have forced Edwin to pay a large sum of money to regain the treasure.”
“You’re too kindhearted,” said Presley. “What are people saying about the bank here, anyway?”
“It is Faustinus. He has everyone in Presidium convinced this is the finest bank that the Empire has ever seen. If he is getting half the accounts he is rumored to have, he will need your help. I know you are fond of Quintus Verrus, but he is very young, you said.”
“He is, but I am sure Faustinus chose him intentionally. I don’t think Faustinus actually cares that much about the bank, as far as it being a bank that makes money.”
Grigory scrunched up his face, and Presley kissed him before he could ask his obvious question.
“Of course, the money would be nice,” Presley explained. “And having his own source of income so he isn’t dependent on the Senate or even Tullius will be welcome. But I think I understand the real value of this banking venture.”
“Which is?”
“The postriders. Even more than money, Faustinus wants information. If the Prefecturate had set up even a tiny number of the stations that now run from here across the Empire, into Cruedrua and Odeland, and then down into Myrcia, his true objective would have been obvious.”
“And his objective is information.”
“That is the polite way to say it.” Presley smirked. “The honest word, of course, is spying. The bank is just there to provide cover; an excuse for his people to be everywhere, traveling at speed.”
Grigory squeezed his hand. “And you helped him set it up. Do you mind? Are you upset?”
Presley shrugged. “I knew Faustinus must have other reasons for doing, well, everything, so I’m at least not surprised. If he doesn’t use what he learns to hurt or extort Edwin again, I guess I’m alright with it.”
“But what if he does?”
“Then I know how to get in touch with Caedmon.” Presley smiled and moved the tray of food from the bed to a side table. “But enough about banks and Faustinus and all the rest. Don’t you agree?”
Presley leaned forward and pressed his lips to Grigory’s throat. The resulting hum of pleasure vibrated against Presley’s lips. “I agree very much.”
Chapter 36
She topped off her glass and refilled Hamon’s. “Right. Drink up. We absolutely have to get going.”
They had planned on leaving an hour and a half ago, but then she’d given him a flirtatious little wink and “accidentally” dropped her towel. It had been a joke, and she hadn’t intended for it to lead anywhere, but it had, and then they both had to bathe again. She had no regrets, but now they were running very late.
All she really wanted to do was stay home, curled up with Hamon and some mulled wine, but there were certain social duties that were expected of an Imperial Prefect on the Solstice. She had to make at least a brief appearance at a few parties, though out of respect for Hamon, she had cut down the number from a dozen to three. And one of those was being thrown by the Emissariae, so it would be quite relaxed and informal.
They finished the wine, and Moira was putting on her earrings, when a knock came at the door. Hamon went to answer it, and came back with Lily, carrying a little scroll with a number of purple seals attached.
“Final order of the court,” she said, putting it down on Moira’s dressing table.
Moira took it up, unrolled it, and then rolled it up again. She already knew what it said. It was official now; she and Faustinus were divorced. She was Moira Jean Darrow again.
She found herself unexpectedly emotional. Not that she regretted the divorce, but she did feel a sense of loss, all the same.
She was still glad she had met Faustinus; nothing would ever change that. But she was glad she didn’t have to be his wife anymore. No doubt they would work together professionally again. But perhaps not for a while. She had been planning on announcing this at the party that evening, and the fact that the divorce papers had arrived only strengthened her resolve.
“The last thing I ever want,” she thought, “is to end up like Tatiana.” Every once in a while, a girl needed to take a break. She felt as if she had earned one.
They left Moira’s house and went first to the Proconsul’s party, which was being held at the Imperial Palace this year. Thousands of candles rose above the crowd in some kind of floating, turning, clockwork crystal chandelier that Moira knew Faustinus had made. Every room had a different little orchestra playing a different style of music—Minertian, Thessalian, Odelandic—while dancers performed in the native costumes of those lands. Hamon seemed quite impressed by it all, so Moira stayed a little longer than she absolutely needed to, after she’d seen the Proconsul and exchanged Solstice greetings with him and his wife.
From there, they went to a smaller, but no less lavish party being given by the mistress of a very important Senator. Both the man and the mistress had invested heavily with the bank, so at least one of the directors would have to make an appearance. Moira and Faustinus had flipped a coin to see who would have to go, and Moira had lost.
Again, she and Hamon stayed only long enough to fulfill their social duty. Everyone there was drinking heavily, and the hostess kept making hints about massage oil and the big new hot bath that had been installed for her on the senator’s orders, and giggling about how many people they could get in the tub at once. Moira got herself and Hamon out of the party as quickly as possible after that. She had never liked the idea of group sex, and she felt sure Hamon wouldn’t much care for it, either.
Finally they got to the bank, which the Emissariae had spent most of the afternoon decorating with pine boughs and silk bunting. Someone—probably Gina—had remembered the Ivich holiday of Seefest, which was a few days before the Solstice, so a lot of the decorations were blue and white—the traditional pilgrim colors. Seefest also involved the blessing of animals, so a few of the girls had drawn pictures of cats and dogs wearing festive holiday clothes and hung them around the room.
Gina, who bounded up to them with drinks as they walked in the door, asked Hamon and Moira if the decorations looked “authentically Myrcian.”
“To tell you the truth,” said Hamon, “this is much better than what we usually do in Myrcia,” which Moira thought was a very tactful way of saying, “No.”
Faustinus, who had been making the rounds of a different set of official parties, showed up about an hour later, by which time Moira was feeling really quite tipsy. She and Hamon were trying to teach Gina, Marzia, and Vittoria a Kenedalic folkdance, when suddenly she turned and found that Faustinus had replaced Vittoria in the circle.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he said.
“I suppose you got your copy of the final order,” she said, taking his arm and leading him away from the dancers and over to the New Accounts desk, which had been transformed for the night into a makeshift bar.
He poured himself a glass of old Thessalian wine and clicked his cup against hers. “Here’s to our divorce. May it be a long and happy one.”
“Should we start celebrating the anniversaries of it?”
“Not a bad idea.” He leaned closer and said, “By the way, not to talk shop, but seeing as we are in the shop, it seems appropriate. I spoke to Senators Grachus and Philocles, and we’re all set for spring.”
“All set for what?” she said, laughing as she watched Hamon’s continued attempts to teach the girls the dance.
“The Dommolian war. The silver mines, remember? There’s going to be a revolt, and then our proconsul in Nivia is going to intervene. I’m going out there to make sure the spontaneous demonstrations happen on schedule.”
“So, you’re leaving again?” For a second, she felt annoyed at him, the way she often had been in the past. Then she remembered that he wasn’t her husband anymore, and there was no reason for her to be upset when she couldn’t see him.
“Yes. Probably in the next few days. Listen, you wouldn’t want to come along, would you?” Faustinus looked at the dancers. “Gina will be coming with me. You could take Hamon. It would be like a double date.”
“H’m...starting a revolution. It sounds so romantic. Sorry, but no.”
He held up his hands. “Ah well. I just thought I’d ask.”
“In fact, I was thinking about taking a break from all this. Maybe going somewhere warm for a while.”
“With Hamon?”
“Of course.” She hugged her arms to herself and smiled. “I want to try to be normal.”
There was a very specific fantasy that she had in mind, one that she hadn’t mentioned yet to Hamon, but she soon would, when the time was right. She imagined herself with him in a garden villa overlooking the Middle Sea. Maybe somewhere in southern Brigantia or eastern Turetania. The sand was white, and the ocean was deep turquoise, and there might (she hadn’t quite decided yet) be children playing in the garden.
“Normal,” repeated Faustinus, shaking his head. “Well, I suppose you should try everything once. You will come back, though, right?”
“Yes. Probably,” she said. “But it might be a while.”
