All That Glitters (24 page)

Artus fell to the floor, facedown. The image faded.

“ARTUS!” Hool howled. She whirled on Lyrelle, “You can see the future! Why didn't you save him! He was just a pup!”

Lyrelle smiled softly. “But Hool, that
was
the future. One of them, anyway—­a likely one. There are others—­some show my son dead, others show Myreon Alafarr screaming in pain. Not all of them will come to pass. Nevertheless, there is a very real chance that Gethrey Andolon will have Artus and my son murdered before the sun rises.”

“Who stabbed Artus? Were they invisible?”

“After a fashion. The Quiet Men of the Mute Prophets have no identity—­no destiny, no fate—­and as such do not appear in my scrying or anyone else's. They are difficult to see, since there is fundamentally nothing
to
see.”

Hool felt fire in her limbs and a trembling urgency in her heart. “How long?”

Lyrelle smiled. “What we just witnessed won't happen for another two hours. Possibly three.”

Hool's legs tensed—­she was ready to fly, if necessary. “I need to go!”

“You will need a weapon.” Lyrelle pointed to Hool's feet. There, snugly fastened inside a leather holster with a shoulder strap, was a heavy spiked mace with a flarewood shaft. As Hool looked at it, the mace's head seemed to . . .
move
. It flowed slowly, like thick mud or clay.

Hool held out a hand to pick it up, but hesitated. “What is it?”

“An artifact of great power, once used against my family many centuries ago. It is called the Fist of Veroth. A parting gift—­a peace offering for my detaining you here so long.”

Hool picked it up—­it was heavy, but the holster fit comfortably around her shoulders so that the weapon rested just behind her head. “I need to go
now
!”

Lyrelle smiled. “The time has come. Remember, Hool: know the game and have the confidence to play it well. You know what humans will do as well as any predator—­use that instinct.”

Hool didn't wait for Lyrelle to finish speaking. She took off at a dead run, rocketing out of the maze on all fours. She left via the main entrance, which led to the road, which in turn would lead her to Saldor, still many miles distant. She howled into the night, sprinting for all she was worth. It felt good and right. She gloried in the feeling of the night air rushing over her fur.

Hool had been running for almost a half hour before she realized one horrifying fact: she was doing exactly what Lyrelle Reldamar wanted.

She clenched her teeth; she went anyway.

 

M
yreon threw a book at Tyvian, which he only just managed to dodge. “No, no, no!” she yelled. “You have a responsibility, dammit! You're
involved
!”

Tyvian retrieved the book and threw it back—­Myreon deflected it with a quick guard spell, but her mouth popped open in indignation. “Don't look at me like that!” he snapped, thrusting a finger in her direction. “You threw a book at me, so
I
threw a book at you—­fair's fair! Furthermore, if we follow your asinine plan, we're going to wind up back where we both started—­Keeper's Court, chained to the bloody Block! If we keep a low profile, if we just—­”

“Coward!” Myreon spat. “Chicken-­livered little—­”

Tyvian rolled his eyes. “Why do you, against all sense, want to charge into danger to protect the very ­people who took your staff away!” He picked up the judge's ledger. “Look at this again! Tell me Forsayth and who knows how many other judges had you petrified on the merits of the case and
not
because Andolon was lining their pockets with silver! You might be stubborn, Myreon Alafarr, but you just aren't that naive!”

Neither of them had slept. Tyvian was exhausted, having swum for an eternity in perfect darkness, navigated a flowing river, and then dragged her deadweight body there under cover of night. He couldn't imagine Myreon felt any better, but they kept arguing without stop. He wasn't sure they could stop. Honestly, he wasn't sure he wanted to.

Myreon was lecturing again, “If we don't stop Andolon, the West will descend into—­”

“Chaos, violence, starvation—­I know, I know. Gods, you're like a bloody maypole with that bit—­round and round and all wrapped up!” He sighed and ran a hand over his increasingly shaggy face—­Maude, it turned out, did not possess a razor. “Myreon, even if we
did
do something to stop Andolon, somebody else would come up with the same trick eventually. The Secret Exchange is riding a bubble—­it can't get bigger forever. Why save it if it's doomed anyway?”

Myreon glared at him but didn't say anything for a few moments. “Andolon shouldn't be the one.”

“What?”

“He's an odious, self-­absorbed little troll, Tyvian. You've agreed as much. Suppose there is bound to be a crash sooner or later—­I'm just a poor Defender and don't claim to understand it, so I guess I'll take your word—­but why should Andolon be the one to clean up? There has
got
to be a better option, right?”

Tyvian shook his head. His mother's plan was becoming all too clear now. How to get him to save the exchange? Easy—­stick him in a room with an inconveniently beautiful woman with a stubborn streak the size of the Eretherian Gap. This had been the plan all along, damn her, and here he was, almost on the brink of agreeing to it. And, after it was all over, Lyrelle would have lost nothing and no one would have any idea she was responsible—­just how she liked it. Still, there were pieces missing. “His plan probably won't work anyway, Myreon, and even if it does, the Prophets will just kill him and eat up the leavings.”

“I'm telling you that we need to make
certain
Andolon's plan doesn't work. We need to go to your brother and offer to have you testify . . .”

Tyvian groaned. “Not this again.”

“Listen to me, dammit!”
Myreon punched the bedpost. “Testify against Andolon on condition of immunity. I'll vouch for you—­I still have friends in—­”

“Myreon!” Tyvian got down at her eye level. “You. Are. A. Criminal. They aren't going to listen to you—­they're the ones who let you get set up! They aren't going to give me
immunity
—­not after I set Keeper's Court on fire. It won't bloody work!”

“So that's it? You're just going to surrender?”

“There's more to this than you understand, Myreon. Gethrey's just a pawn in a game of
couronne
—­we
all
are. The game is rigged and the only way to win is not to play at
all
.”

Myreon threw up her hands. “So you keep insisting, but you refuse to explain!”

“If I explain, that becomes
part
of the game, dammit!”

“So why did you even
come
here, Tyvian? Why even bother saving me if all we're going to do is sit here fighting?” Myreon arched her eyebrows. “Well? When you busted me out, what did you think would happen? You'd sweep me onto a white charger and ride off into the sunset?”

Tyvian snorted. “Of course not.”

“Then
what
? Why am I even here?”

Tyvian's whole body ached. It seemed like the only things that could change the course of their conversation were the very things he swore he'd never say. “This will never work if you won't listen to reason.”

Myreon folded her arms. “I might say the exact same thing to
you
.”

The secret door swiveled open, bringing the muffled roar of a busy night at the Cauldron with it. In came Maude with a tray in one hand. She was wearing her boots and bracers. “Busy night, my duckies. Would have come in sooner but for some pisser who took a swing at Jari.” She gave them a big wink. “Settled him quick, never fear. His friends collected his teeth and cleared out.”

“Is Jari all right?” Tyvian asked. He had a vague recollection of a bartender, Rhondian, tall and dark.

Maude set a tray of roast chicken on the bed, pulled a demi of Akrallian white from somewhere in her blouse and handed it to Myreon. She added two wooden cups to the tray. “Not the best stuff, mind, but nothing that will be missed neither.”

Tyvian inhaled the aroma of the chicken—­not a culinary masterpiece, but the hint of rosemary and garlic was enough to set his mouth watering. “That is more than adequate, thank you.”

Myreon echoed the sentiment with a weak smile, which made one of Maude's eyebrows wrinkle. She looked at Tyvian and back at Myreon. “Now, you two'd best leave off the shouting for a while—­just have a go with each other and have it over with. Beds're built for using, eh?”

Myreon nearly dropped the wine bottle. Tyvian opened his mouth to reply, but Maude gave him a peck on the cheek, a wink, and retreated, locking the door behind her.

Tyvian found himself eye-­to-­eye with the steel-­gray gaze of Myreon Alafarr. He found himself unable to read her expression, but he gathered it wasn't positive, given how her eyebrows were pinched together. He smiled at her and did his best to sound nonchalant. “So, care to have a go?” He cocked his head at an angle popular with dandies and gave her an overblown, rakish wink.

Myreon's face got somehow even
more
tense for a moment before bursting with great, whooping guffaws. Tyvian found himself joining her, and they laughed together for a full minute, one picking up the levity when the other ran out of breath, until both of them were leaning back against opposite sides of the bed, smiles on their faces. Silence fell over them, and it felt, for the first time, to be a comfortable silence. A silence between friends. Maybe. He reflected he was probably fooling himself.

“However did you earn the loyalty of that woman?” Myreon asked, shaking her head.

“Maude is a fine specimen of person,” Tyvian said, realizing he was reacting more seriously than was his wont. “The finest, actually.”

“Oh—­I don't mean the question as a slight, no!” Myreon smiled at him, “She's wonderful. She reminds me of some of my aunts. Well, if my aunts were gigantic and terrifying.”

Tyvian looked up at the ceiling. He found himself talking. “I used to come here a lot when I was young. I'd sneak out of the town house or sneak a horse out of Glamourvine or something and come here—­popular place with the rich kids. The food was rustic and tasty, the wine list ser­viceable, and the whores were high quality. No place a boy of fifteen with a chip on his shoulder would rather be, believe me.”

Myreon frowned. “I heard about you back then. Nothing good—­you had a reputation for a temper. Fought a lot of duels. Heard you killed a boy.”

Tyvian nodded slowly, remembering that moment—­the blood, the saliva bubble the boy had blown before he died, the dead weight of his body on top of him. “I did. You asked about Maude, though. This was after the whole killing thing—­when I had a
really
dangerous reputation. Funny thing about a reputation, actually—­you work so hard to get it without realizing what happens when you do. I had every suck-­up and gay-­blade in Saldor nipping at my heels. I fought a duel twice a week or so. They were mostly just foolishness—­a nick here, a little poke there. Nobody seriously hurt.”

Myreon poured the wine. “What's all this have to do with Maude?”

“I decided pretty early on that I liked prostitutes.” Tyvian saw Myreon stiffen, and added, “Look, I won't lie to you—­I, ah, sampled the wares. What teenage boy with silver burning a hole in his pocket wouldn't? That isn't quite what I meant, though. I
liked
them. I knew all their names, I liked to hear their stories.”

Myreon snorted. “You were paying them, Tyvian. It was just an act—­”

“Please, Myreon—­a little credit? I
knew
the act. Through them I got an education in manipulation and deceit no tutor could ever teach me. Maybe they never liked me—­very probable, actually—­but I didn't much care. I visited often, tipped generously, and became
quite
popular. They also gave me plenty of excuses to pick fights, which I actively relished back then. Some fop gave his jenny a slap, and I was there, ready to make him regret it. Champion of the Night Ladies, that was me.” Tyvian rolled his eyes. “I was their personal gods-­damned savior. And I loved every minute of it, I assure you.”

Myreon was watching him closely, her eyes searching his face. “I assume the gay-­blades didn't especially like that?”

Tyvian nodded. “One fellow—­a vicious little prick named DeVauntnesse—­took exception to his whore for the evening extolling my virtues. He beat her, and rather severely. Now, the DeVauntnesse family was too rich for Maude to do much about it, but I, on the other hand . . .”

Myreon gasped. “Hann's boots! Is this
Faring
DeVauntnesse?”

Tyvian grinned. “I suppose you know where the story goes from there.”

“
You
did that?” Myreon laughed. “I never guessed you would have cut off a man's balls for beating a jenny. Never in a million years.”

Tyvian shrugged. “I was a nicer person back then.” He sipped the wine—­not good, but passable. The fact that it was in a wooden cup nearly ruined it, but it was better than nothing. “I gave all that up, though. As much as I enjoyed stabbing my peers, in the end I came to realize nothing good ever comes from saving ­people from themselves. That particular instance is a good example: the girl I'd fought for went back to comfort Faring as soon as he was on his feet again. It was his last visit—­his worst fears were confirmed, I suppose. He beat the girl again. Anyway, that's why Maude loves me—­Tyvian Reldamar, retired defender of the defenseless.” He raised his cup. “Cheers.”

Myreon raised her cup. “I would have cut off his balls, too.”

Tyvian grinned at her. “That's what makes us such a good team, I suppose.”

“Right.” Myreon rolled her eyes. She was quiet a moment, then, “Who was the girl?”

“Does it matter?”

“I'm curious.”

Tyvian sighed. “Her name is Claudia Fensron.”

Myreon's mouth popped open. “But—­”

“She hates me, yes.” Tyvian took a long sip of wine. “The wages of gallantry, my dear. Remember them well.”

They ate in silence—­a kind of truce, Tyvian supposed. Myreon seemed deep in thought and Tyvian opted not to disturb her. Besides, he was having a hell of a time figuring out how to eat a chicken without utensils or napkin and without getting grease all over his only shirt. As he refused to lick his fingers like a dog in front of a lady, he was forced to surreptitiously wipe them on the bedspread when Myreon wasn't looking. The whole affair was incredibly uncivilized. It reminded him of eating with Hool.

One way or another, there wouldn't have to stay in Maude's saferoom much longer. Andolon's plan was likely almost at fruition. Tyvian guessed his escape from Keeper's Court had made that possible for him, on some level. Anyway, the markets were ripe.

Here, in the depths of the summer, trade was at its peak in the Secret Exchange—­the Eretherian campaigns were in full swing, and the war chests of petty nobility would need bolstering. Calls for loans would be high, which meant interest rates would be high, and a lot of rich ­people would be hedging their bets for a good harvest come the start of autumn. The risk would be high as well, given the interest on the loans they took to keep Baron What's-­his-­name out of their realm, and so they'd seek ways to secure the value of their harvest, hence they'd be purchasing derivatives from wealthy sorcerous families in Saldor who, in turn, would be packaging those derivatives into the complex derivative products for sale on the Secret Exchange. Akral, as Eretheria's other major trading partner, would be bound to Eretheria's financial fate. Galaspin was bound to Saldor's. Ihyn depended on all of them. And on and on and on.

If the Secret Exchange went belly up, the Saldorians wouldn't be able to pay out their derivatives, which would, in turn, mean the Eretherians would have no guarantee for the price of their grain. This wouldn't normally be a problem, since a good harvest would still mean they'd have an abundance of grain to sell and, perhaps, just break even instead of turning a profit. That, of course, was how the Saldorians used auguries to guarantee their own speculation—­they
knew
(or thought they knew) that the harvest was going to be good, so playing free and loose with money they didn't yet possess wasn't too risky. If the Eretherians had a
bad
harvest (like, for instance, because Quiet Men with bags of poison were going about causing trouble) or if the prices of certain key commodities dropped precipitously (like, for instance, by Gethrey Andolon releasing a hidden stockpile of goods to force prices down), the petty nobility would go belly up, default on their loans. Those who lent to them (Akrallians as often as not) would go belly up, too, since they needed that money to guarantee their
own
loans. The whole chain of dominoes would fall, and though nothing in the world really changed from the perspective of the average farmer, his local lord would be raising taxes to make his loan payments. That farmer, already living on a narrow margin, would find himself starving inside of a year.