The cage, p.4
The Cage, page 4
A reaver, he thought. Her pale grey eyes were scanning his Benai with the automatic looter's appraisal of one born to raid and foray. One of the many I've spoken with, lately. These were troubled times, along the river and in the great world beyond. An age is coming to an end, the abbot mused. An age of peace and prosperity, when wars were scuffles between neighbors and we thought the years would go on forever in their accustomed path. A new era dawned for the peoples about the Mitvald, and whether the change was for the better or the worse, its birth would be bloody.
Unless an old man mistakes the creaking of his bones for earthquakes, he thought wryly. Then, aloud: "What magic did you use, Teik, to befriend this one who is as comfortable as a night-siren?"
"Oh, almost got her killed in various gruesome fashions. After that we were firm friends," Shkai'ra said lightly, with a flash of white teeth. Her Zak was fluent but careful, sprinkled with terms from the trade-pidgin; a F'talezonian accent, obviously learned from Megan. "Not a day's peace since we met, a true gift for trouble."
Trouble, hah." Megan snorted. "Ivahn, it follows her shadow," the Zak said, as they passed the polished wood of the door to the Abbot's study. It was plain, but the grain shone with a swirling grace that spoke of hours with cloth and wax.
"You will pardon me while I change my robe," the monk said, motioning toward the seats. They were of a piece with the rest of the corner room: simply made. For the rest there was a high desk, cluttered with papers; one wall held books, locked and hung from pegs in cases of oiled leather; on the other a tall, slender mandala was painted in bright colors against white stucco, crowned with the ever-present onion arch. South and east were pointed windows, open to the cooling air.
Shkai'ra went to one, looking down over sloping land. Growing over slow centuries, the Benai had sprawled over the promontory that gave it birth; blue walls, white stone domes, slender minarets reached toward a sky darkening into night. The river and the city that had grown up under this buildings protection were at her back; ahead, land sloped downward more gently than the cliff they had climbed from the ferry. Along the horizon loomed the wildwood and swamp of the Brezhan delta.
She shifted her gaze southward. The sea was still the dark Svartzee blue-black she had found so curious, breaking froth-white on the small bay. A cluster of weathered buildings grouped around a wharf, fishing boats beached among spread nets. Trotting up from the wharf came a squad of horsemen, red light bright on their lanceheads and scale mail.
Rich, she thought. Metal armor for common soldiers… no, guard-monks, Megan said. On the wall below, a monk swung a padded beam hung in slings against a bell taller than herself. The sound hung in hazy air, bronze and mellow and lovely.
Megan came up behind her and drew in deep lungfuls of air, watching the lone monk, highlighted by the setting sun, the moon already showing coin-round. "Smells like home."
"This priest," Shkai'ra said quietly. "How far can you trust him?" Megan smiled, eyes hooded, watching the land through the open window.
"When I left," she said slowly, "he was one of the two frehmat, not blood-kin, whom I would have trusted with my knives."
Shkai'ra's lips puckered in a silent whistle, trust indeed. "Before we give anything away…" Megan shook herself and turned away.
"Now who are you trying to teach?" She cocked a head toward the door. "He's coming. With one other."
The door opened again, readmitting the Benaiat, earthstained robe gone, replaced with one of red linen. The monk who followed looked for somewhere to set the large tray. The only place was the unsteady, sliding surface of papers on the desk. He placed it on the bench. "A moment, Zar, " he said.
It was only a while before he returned with a light table, and at the abbots nod, withdrew.
"Megan. Two years is a long time to search for a son." The bittersweet scent of kahfe filled the room as he poured three small cups, liquid thick and darker than earth. "You found him?"
"My son? Is that the story Habiku spread?"
"Either that or that you were dead. I chose to believe the former." Megan looked at him, shrugged as if she didn't care and turned away so he couldn't see that it affected her. That he cared…
"Ivahn… the kahfe grows cold. Today, I stand on courtesy and talk does not go with food."
"As you wish." The Benaiat pursed his lips thoughtfully.
The meal was quickly over, eaten in silence. Megan carefully picked up the tiny saltcellar and offered it to Ivahn, who looked at her, then accepted it and put down his cup. "You were not away, then, on a quest of your own. I suspected as much when the papers of agency were withdrawn."
The old man's sharp as a Warmaster's grace-knife, Shkai'ra thought. Megan ran a finger around the rim of her cup, the syrupy sweet flavor still on her lips. It was the one indulgence the Benaiat allowed himself. "No, Ivahn. Had I sought my son, he would be with me." She raised her eyes to him. "As you see, he isn't. I haven't changed that much, that I'd give up or abandon kin. I was wondering "about the papers when we cleaned up the counting house yesterday. Vhsant is gone and certain important books with him."
Shkai'ra reached over and took Megan's arm, raising it so that her cuff fell away from one wrist. The manacle scars were two years old now; thickened white tissue showed in twin bands around tendons of the Zak's wrists.
The Benaiat pursed his lips. "Habiku?" he said. "And Vhsant, obviously." He shook his head. "There was little I could do, even when Vhsant began engaging in… questionable activities." At her look he shrugged. "Large-scale slaving; from Thanish sources upriver, mostly outward bound to Laka, Tor Ench, even the Empire. Legal, quite legal, but as you know, the Benai has always refused participation; it was somewhat of a relief when Habiku revoked our agency." Brahvnikian trade-law required a local sponsor who would stand good for any unpaid and uncollectable debt of a firm based out of the city.
"Then… I've had suspicions, shall we say, of the origin of some of the goods Vhsant has been dealing with. Not through Brahvniki, but parcels acquired upriver; the Fraosra of the Guard suspect they originated on missing ships. That would be illegal, of course." The cities of the river valley lived by trade, but the river was long and much of it was wild, thousands of leagues of forest, marsh and hill; the basin it drained was mostly wild, and there were many navigable tributaries. Suspicion and hatred prevented the joint patrols that would be the only way to stamp out the river pirates once and for all, but the law-merchant everywhere forbade dealing in stolen cargo. The problem was enforcement.
Megan nodded. "There was nothing you could do, Ivahn," she said grimly.
"Nothing," the priest agreed. "Brahvnikis trade-treaty with F'talezon is quite specific as to whose domestic law covers ownership of single-capital firms based there; I could not violate that without permission of the Praetanu and would not if I could. Too many livelihoods depend on the metal trade. But now, one hopes, matters will be different. But… friendship compels me to be blunt, Megan. Here in Brahvniki there is no problem; you are owner of record, your identity can be sworn to by myself among others, we have received no communication revoking it. Elsewhere, you will need resources to reestablish yourself. Habiku has had the use and direction of your ships and business for some time now; even with the losses, there is still wealth enough to buy knives and shut mouths. Were your headquarters in Brahvniki… As you said, the Benai doesn't even have papers for your holdings here."
Megan took a deep breath. "I thought something like that when I couldn't find half of what I needed. Thank you for that information, my friend. Do you know who has them if Vhsant didn't just steal them?" she asked, deadly quiet. The company had taken five years of work and effort, a thing built from ruins and pain, her only hope for ever buying her son back…
"Schotter Valders'sen."
"A Thane?" Megan asked. Her right hand began a slow, unconscious rubbing at the scars on her left wrist.
"Late resident of Aenir'sford. Expelled for commercial fraud, as I recall."
Megan felt an anger take hold of her she had never thought to feel again, not after Sarngeld died. I listened to him scream, drove the knife into him again, blind rage, stop, stop moving, stop squealing, not human, die, I hate you but please die. I knifed him in the back. He tried to be my father so it would suit his Arkan soul that he use me any way he saw fit. He pulled my son, my Lixand, away from me though he clung to my chains with two-year-old hands and I screamed and cried and begged to keep him. Sarngeld chained me that day, to do that. Hamstrung, knifed in the back, the blade going in with the sticky resistance of kitchen knife into raw chicken, grating on bones. I hated him for what he did to me, then hated him for not dying fast enough. Bleeding everywhere. I hated him and everything. The old anger deep and black and full of rot. What warmth she had in her eyes cooled and her face set.
"I remember. I was on the coalition of merchants that spoke to the court there." She glanced Shkai'ra's way, looking past her, then her eyes snapped into focus as she looked at the Kommanza. "Quicker to kill ones enemies," she said quietly.
"So I've always said, kh'eeredo."
Megan turned back to Ivahn. "Ivahn, would you take the agency back? Is there anything left to take back? Do you know?"
"Yes and yes and yes. Of course, all I know is hearsay." He got up, lifted a book free of the wall and unlocked it. "I can't afford to take sides, but somehow you happened to spy all of last year's revenues, before the papers were wrested from the Benai by the Zak courts, lying open on my desk." He handed the book to Megan. "I didn't see you." He turned his eyes to Shkai'ra. "I fear that your akribhan will need some assistance in repairing her state. It is good that heavier steel stands at her back."
Silence hung heavy for a hand of minutes, until Megan shut the book with a snap that would have been violent if it were not so carefully controlled. She closed her eyes a moment, and white lines of tension stood out around her mouth as she controlled herself. The anger disappeared.
"Ivahn, thank you. Habiku has sold the warehouse and is renting at twice the price. The timber trade is dealing in lumber for scrap, and the Laua, the weavers, no longer trade with us."
"Megan, it seems that the Benai is going to have a slight surplus of revenues this season cycle." The abbot tapped his lower lip with an index finger. "If necessary, a rather small loan could be arranged…"
Megan turned to Shkai'ra, her attempt at levity brittle. "A small loan, he says. To Ivahn, small means giving me the Benai." She considered a moment. "Show him."
Shkai'ra shrugged and set the wooden box on the bench. It was Fehinnan, from the other shore of the Lannic, plain black wood with a fiber-ceramic combination lock. She covered the tiny dial with her palm and twisted four times.
"It is not entirely empty-handed we come," she said. "We have a small deposit for your establishment." The lid tipped back; Shkai'ra folded open the rack of trays within. "We traded the gains for high value and small weight."
Abbot Ivahn had steered the affairs of his cloister for many years; it was not poor, and levied a toll of trade between the sea and the Brezhan, which drained half a continent. His breath hissed between his teeth at the sight before him. There was a tray of cabochon-cut rubies, deep crimson sparkle in the light of the lantern and the setting sun. Rose-cut diamonds. A ring of sapphires, set in lapis lazuli, come six thousand miles west from the mines of Ph'astan, near the roof of the world, and more…
He scanned their hard-worn clothes again, looked at the grime worn into the knuckles of their hands, hair faded by sun and salt spray. "Wise," he said. "Very wise. In Brahvniki, I know personally of only four I would trust with this; I am one, you another, Teik Shkai'ra—" He nodded to her. "I'll trust Megan's judgment on the matter."
"Ivahn," Megan said. "Take my company back. I'm the owner. No court is going to stop me from cleaning house, and no court has jurisdiction because I am not deceased. You can get your monks to prepare the parchments of Agency." After a moment: "Standard deposit interest, with letters of credit for upriver?"
"We'll be taking time and ready money to get a ship," Shkai'ra said. "A riverboat: small, fast, sound but not new. All found, Megan would know the details."
"And a crew, of course," Megan added.
Ivahn nodded, thoughtful. "All this will take some time." he said. "We have extensive banking business, but this will add a third to our loan capital. We must confer with other… No matter, your affairs may proceed at once. As for a crew, you will find hiring easy. Especially with so many of your former shipfolk looking for berths."
"Former shipfolk?' Megan began, then cut herself off. "Enough. Tomorrow. Oh, Habiku," she continued softly, "how I long for the sight of your face."
MINDSPEAKER'S CHAMBERS DRAGON'SNEST, F'TALEZON
TENTH IRON CYCLE, SIXTH DAY
The mindspeaker dribbled and whined, face twitching, soft, baby features strange coupled with a man's body. Then it settled into a dough-impassive mask, and the lips moved.
"Communication," they said. The accent was slurred, but had a crisp south-coast tone. That was the key word, implanted in the damaged brains of the relay speakers. This one's twin was in Brahvniki, hearing the words spoken by the keeper there.
"From: Benaiat Ivahn of Saekrberk."
"To: Habiku Smoothtongue of F'talezon."
The idiot savant talent of the mindspeaker gave an eerie mimicry of the voice that was dictating the message to his brother, two thousand kilometers to the south.
"Greetings. Let this message constitute formal notice that the Benai Saekrberk, on instruction of the proprietor, Megan Whitlock, has resumed Agency for the Sleeping Dragon trading company in the Free City of Brahvniki and its environs."
"Further note that we are instructed to ignore all further communications from Company headquarters in F'talezon until the proprietor has resumed residence therein."
"End of message. Costs reversed. Communication ends."
The small stone cubicle echoed with the last words of the mindspeaker. The room was cold, having none of the normal tapestries or hangings to muffle the sharp corners and stone. The only heat in the room came from a grate in the wall by the floor, where a carefully shielded brazier stood. His keeper hurried to touch and reassure the mindspeaker who was reaching out, clutching at air like a baby in search of contact, a whimper already rising. She threw a look over her shoulder at Habiku, who gripped the arms of the folding chair until they creaked, close to breaking. He was pale and sweating, hair matted around his face as he stared at the two, keeper and mindspeaker, ignoring the disinterested guard by the door. He was rumpled, disheveled, unshaven and unwashed. His lips moved, slightly, his voice a strangled whisper.
"That's im…" He swallowed. "Impossible. Impossible!" His voice rose. "No! I refuse…"
"Teik." The keeper cut him off, her voice low and soothing for the telepath she tended, but her glare was icy. "Teik. Last time Jahn here had one of his fits he almost killed someone. He did set fire to the DragonLord's audience hall because we were forced to go there, and the tapestries and cloths torn down and shredded were invaluable. If you don't want me to let him have you, keep your voice down?"
Habiku would have paled further if that were possible. He had no power, no inner eye, not even to the slight degree that an ordinary Zak did; the manrauq frightened him. It was sorcery, terror from the world beyond. Liar, liar, witch, his mind screamed, only his will keeping tongue and throat from echoing it; easy to see, to feel the reason for the pogroms against the Zak elsewhere. He wanted to smash, to pound his fists like mallets into the keeper's smug face that stared at him as if he were a blind man, a deaf beggar…
Instead he closed his mouth and rose, bowed jerkily to the keeper, ignoring the smirk on the guard's face. He avoided looking at the vacant, empty stare of the idiot savant; a baby had more knowingness in its look. An obscenity, he thought, and shivered.
Outside, he leaned against a wall a moment, breathing heavily. She was alive. Vhsant had sworn he had killed her. Sweet DragonLord's favor! He felt at his middle, at the roll of fat gathered there over the last two years. She had stretched him, always too clever, always too quick, always a half-step ahead until that last time… Why didn't I kill her myself, after I used her? Habiku felt the question slide over his consciousness; the answer was there, but his mind refused to look at it.
Run, something prompted him. Take the cash and the banker's drafts, hire a few guides and run. North, up the white-water stretches of the river where only canoes could go, up past the salt mines. Into the trackless forests, where the fur traders went to deal with the woodsrunning tribes, then west. West to the Schvait cities, then south into the Empire; he could buy his way in where she would be barred by Arkan law and custom, a woman and dark—
No, he would meet her here, in the center of his power. Oh, not here; she could die, die in the far south. Slowly. Slowly, he told himself. He was not her second officer now; he was a man of wealth, of power. He had agents, hirelings; eyes were for sale in the river cities, and knives. And here in F'talezon he had the favor of the Court, Avritha, as well as the power of wealth. She'll die, or be mine again. Mine forever.
Once outside the Nest he did break into a run, confounding his escort. Where did I send her arms-master? The salt mines? Already his breath was wheezing out between clenched teeth, the smooth pavement of the Upper City suddenly feeling rough and uneven—like when I was a child—as he ran; the sling-litter following behind their master, running.
THE TRAINING CIRCLE
SLAF HIKARME
TENTH IRON CYCLE, ELEVENTH DAY
Thud. The blunt tip of the wooden practice sword caught Habiku under the ribs. Breath hissed out between clenched teeth as he backed and parried, oak clacking on oak; the arms-master followed, striking with smooth precision. Habiku forced muscles and lungs to function with a fierce effort of his will, tasting blood where he had bitten his cheek, detesting every moment of the discomfort. But there was no value to a combat skill you could not practice through pain and weariness.
