Game of Souls (14 page)

“He’d undercut his own?”

“The guilds know only their coin.” Keedar shrugged. “Whichever leader finds the best way to deliver it, he gets to dictate terms and agreements.”

“I see. So what do
you
want?”

Keedar paused. At this point he was supposed to mention how most in the Smear shunned him, how he didn’t fit in, his lack of friends, how he simply wanted a different life, even something other than Kasandar. He was to casually admit his ability in soul magic and suck Winslow in. Keedar didn’t quite know what to make of Winslow, but the scorn he previously sensed from the young man was absent.

He told how he truly felt at the moment. “In all honesty, I don’t know.”

T
o Help the Enemy

W
inslow held Keedar’s gaze for a few moments longer. If he concentrated hard enough he had a knack for knowing when people lied to him. No such deception emanated from the commoner.
Commoner.
The name felt odd instead of using dreg.

Three times now he’d lived because of Keedar. He couldn’t think of him the same way any more. The idea that the guild member might be dead because of his father had eaten at him. He recalled a time when he wouldn’t have cared, when he would have laughed it off, but he no longer found pleasure in things he once did. His feelings didn’t make sense to him. In truth, he should have despised Keedar. Instead, he’d developed an affinity that he could not help no matter how he tried.

Tonight compounded matters. He glanced at Gaston’s still form once more. At least his breathing was steady. After tilting his friend’s head to see the gash, he ripped the sleeve from his shirt and used it as a bandage. The smell of blood grew thick as he worked. Once satisfied, he sat back, trying not to let the events of the last few days consume him.

He should have seen the attack coming, but preoccupied as he was by the disappointment of his apprenticeship, he let any sign of an imminent threat slip his awareness. As he replayed the fight, he swore he’d seen his assailant before, but exactly where he could not say. After a moment, he brushed away the thought. There would be time enough to dwell on it.

“I can agree to delivering information on goods and the like,” Winslow said. It was past time to try something different in his life.

“We’ll give you a percentage of—”

“Coin means nothing to me. I have more than I could possibly spend.” He was uncertain how Keedar would react but acting decisively worked better than being tentative. The training to become a Blade had so far been nothing he could have imagined. He required another way.

“What can we offer you then?”

“Regardless of what you say, I know you can meld. My father believes it also. Whoever taught you, I want them to do the same for me.”

“Even if I can do what you say, what makes you think any mentor of mine wishes to teach a noble?”

“If gaining an upper hand in the Consortium is as important as it seems, then he should.” Winslow could see the lie forming. It was past time to deliver his own surprise. “Whatever you’re about to claim, it isn’t true.”

Keedar’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m no melder yet, but the ability is there. When I look hard enough or when I’m around a person long enough, I can tell when they lie. It’s not constant, and I don’t have full control of it yet, but it happens. It’s as if their soul speaks to me, tells me what’s true and what isn’t.”

A smirk played across Keedar’s face. Winslow could see the cogs turning in his head, the skepticism.

“Count Cardiff isn’t your father,” Keedar said.

“You have to do better than that,” Winslow said, smiling.

Keedar simply looked at him.

The sense he’d developed said Keedar believed the words. But he’d learned long ago that a person’s belief didn’t necessarily make a thing true. Regardless, Keedar’s conviction radiated with too much force, too much certainty. Winslow’s mouth dried.

“No, that cannot be.” Thinking through his life, Winslow shook his head. He remembered the count’s face all the way until he was a child. A child … but not as a baby. Try as he might, he conjured no visions of him in Count Cardiff’s arms. Could that be why Count Cardiff never spoke of his mother or his brother? He remembered his wet nurse but not Ainslen.
Shouldn’t I have such images considering my mother died giving birth to me?
He stared Keedar in the eye but met a flat expression. “What do you remember of your mother from when you were a baby?” Fidgeting with his hands he awaited the answer.

Keedar grimaced. “I don’t recall a lot. Sometimes, I see her holding me, looking into my face, kissing me, whispering or singing to me, but …” He trailed off, his attention drifting to a crack in the curtains over the coach’s windows. “What I remember most is the night she died. Flames. Heat. Her screams.” Wetness gathered at the corner of his eyes.

“At least you have that,” Winslow whispered. “I’ve never felt a great connection to my … to Count Cardiff. I often thought it was because he was always away on business, leaving the servants to take care of me. Whenever I would see other nobles or counts playing with their children, I would wish to be in their place.” He considered how he and the count bore little to no similarities in resemblance. It only made him feel worse, a further jolt to a system already in shock. “I-I cannot tell if what you said of me is the truth, just that you believe it. One way or another I will find out.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Keedar said, “you were almost right about me. I’m close to being a melder. Most of what I do happens naturally, without my full control, so I haven’t earned the title yet. My father says once I gain the last of the median cycles, I’ll be a true melder, and he’ll know my type. Until then, I’m just a trainee. If you wish, I can ask him to teach you.”

Winslow couldn’t help his slight smile. He needed something to hold onto. This would do. “I’d like that. For my part, I will help with what you need as long as it doesn’t involve bringing harm to anyone. Regardless of whether he’s my true father or not, the count is the only father I know.”
He’s the only family I know.

A knock on the wood announced that they’d arrived at their destination. “This is your stop.”

“Thank you, I’ll see you soon.” Keedar flung open the door, leaped from the coach, and disappeared into the night.

Winslow pulled the door shut and sat back, mind whirling. He’d agreed to help a guild leader, one of the very people his father loathed.
Count Cardiff.
Did Keedar tell the truth? Was the count not his father? Was he a bastard as some rumors said? He had always been good at analyzing problems, but he found no obvious answers. The rest of the ride to Antelen Hill, he laid back, closed his eyes, and fought back tears.

When they arrived at the Rostlin mansion’s front steps on Antelen Hill, Winslow was surprised to see Count Cardiff, Kesta Rostlin, and several attendants waiting. The blood Winslow allowed the wiseman to take must have helped. His father still used a crutch tucked under his arm to walk, but his complexion was much healthier. Keedar’s words sprang to mind almost immediately, and he found himself wondering again if they were the truth.

By Count Kesta Rostlin’s posture and the way he was gesticulating, Winslow could tell Gaston’s father wasn’t pleased. Face expressionless, Count Cardiff looked at Kesta’s pudgy hands then met the man’s gaze. Almost immediately, Kesta’s arms dropped to his side. To his credit, he did continue to speak. Aidah Rostlin stood at the door, wringing her hands.

Whenever Winslow saw Kesta, he thought of a large tub of jelly. Kesta’s expensive silks and satins looked ridiculous on him, but no one would dare tell him that. Not with his temper, and not if they wanted to live. Unless, of course, if they were one of the other counts.

Within moments of the coach drawing to a halt, servants flung open the door and helped Winslow lift his friend out. They rested Gaston’s prone form on a litter before rushing off into the house with him. Head throbbing from the lingering effects of the night’s drinking, Winslow watched in silence, muttering a prayer under his breath.

“What happened?” Kesta Rostlin’s jowls and more than ample belly shook with the question. His normally pink face was red enough to match his bloodshot eyes. He reeked of liquor. “You were supposed to be off enjoying yourselves on the Row, not getting into a fight.”

“Wasn’t a fight, someone tried to kill us.”

“What?” Mouth open, Kesta glared from Winslow to Count Cardiff and back again. “Did you see who?”

“No. It was too dark, and he was too quick, but I’m positive it was a melder.”

“I warned you this might happen, Kesta.” Count Cardiff rested on the triangular support of his crutch, apparently at ease despite the tightness around his eyes. “Why would you allow them to go to the Row?” He faced Winslow. “And you, didn’t I warn you to be careful? Did I not tell you this would be a good time for one of the other houses to attempt to kill you? When I’m weakened?”

“If you know who it is,” Kesta said, “you could still challenge them.”

Count Cardiff scowled. “And you should think before you speak.”

“So I’m supposed to stand here and take what happened—”

“Even if my father knew who it was,” Winslow kept his voice low and calm, “if he called them to a duel, he would have to fight the person himself. If it’s Counts Cardinton, Melinden, or Shenen, all three are at least as strong as my father in melding. In his state, he would lose. Since he issued the challenge, he wouldn’t be able to have a champion stand in for him unless they asked for one. And they would not.”

Kesta snapped his mouth shut. He was as bad at strategy as he was ruthless. The man seemed to know one way to act, and that was with immediate violence rather than with delicate maneuvering required by this situation. As heads of the Jarina, Desitrin, and Hazline Houses the three counts had enough riches to match four of the others. It would be foolish for his father to move against them.

“Thank you.” Count Cardiff dipped his head to Winslow. “If you feel so strongly about it though, Kesta, you could call the duel.”

“I-I …”

“Or not. We can let them have this victory for now and find a way to retaliate later. By the time I have recovered enough, if my wiseman’s estimates are correct, the two week window to call whichever house it is into account would have passed. They bested us this time, but we shall have our turn, trust me. Isn’t that the joy of playing Far’an Senjin?”

Winslow ground his teeth. Even in their sleep the noble houses seemed to play the game.

“I pray you’re right, Ainslen,” Kesta said. “I shall hold you to your word on this. Remember, we need each other, especially with the shipment due. Until we next speak, I have a son to tend to.” He turned and waddled off toward his mansion.

From the way his father watched Kesta’s back and the scowl on his face, Winslow could tell he didn’t share the same sentiments as far as need.

His father turned to him. “Did you get an idea of this melder’s skill?”

“No.”

“Hmm. How did you mange to escape with your life anyway?”

“The nightwatch.” Certain the count already had a report Winslow wanted to keep his answers to a minimum.

“Strange,” the count’s expression became thoughtful, “Sergeant Costace swore some other noble assisted. A young man a bit shorter than you with sandy hair and amber eyes. Do you have any idea who
he
was?”

Winslow shrugged. “None. Some random stranger who decided to help, I guess. I’ve never seen him before. Possibly a young man from one of the minor houses or a visitor from elsewhere. You know the type the Row attracts.”

“I do indeed,” Count Cardiff answered. “Anyway, I’m glad that you are unhurt. Hopefully now you will heed my warnings. All of them.”

“Yes, count,” Keedar said as meekly as he could manage, a sense of relief sweeping through him that his father had not forced the issue.

“Because I would hate to discover that you were seen with that dreg once more.”

Winslow said nothing.

G
ift for a Son

“L
ieutenant Sorinya has returned, my lord,” the attendant called.

“Send him in immediately.” Count Cardiff tapped a finger on the Farlands map. According to the markings, several Dracodar tribes still existed across the Renigen Sea, slaves to the advanced yet savage race of yellow-haired men he knew only as Farlanders. Ainslen closed the book, removed his glasses, and waited.

A moment later, Sorinya entered. In one hand he carried a sack. With him came the sharp scent of death. The Ebon Blade was wider across than one side of the double doors. Whenever he stepped through a shadow, it often seemed as if he disappeared. Mosquitoes swarmed toward him, drawn to not only the blood but also to the man’s sweat.

It took a monumental effort for Ainslen not to engage his
shi
. But by using it to tell if the effect employed by Sorinya was a melding ability, he would possibly expose his own skills. Sorinya had proven his loyalty for many years, but there were some things that had to remain secret under any circumstance. By the Dominion, the man was unnerving. Ainslen set his glasses aside on the table. He regarded the sack, and then rolled his eyes. “Was that really necessary?”

“You asked for heads, father. I brought you …” he emptied the sack on the carpet, “heads.”

Hair matted with dried blood, three heads tumbled across the carpet before bumping into a chest of drawers. On the cheek of each was a snake tattoo. The dead eyes of two boys and a girl stared accusingly at him.

Ainslen gripped the arm of his chair so hard the wood cracked under the pressure. “You have gone too far now,” he said through clenched teeth.

Eyes narrowed, Sorinya peered at him, and then grinned. “Have I?”
Sintu
flared several inches from his body, his essence hardening.

Realizing Sorinya’s goal, Ainslen brought his anger under control. “Yes, you have, but this is neither the place nor the time to teach you a lesson.”

“And here I was looking forward to class.” A hint of disappointment colored Sorinya’s tone. The glow around his body subsided to a hair’s length above his skin.

Ever since he adopted Sorinya, the Thelusian had tested Ainslen, always attempting to see who was the strongest between them. Although he had taken him in quite a few years beyond the optimal age for integration into the Blades, he never thought Sorinya would have wanted to be among his own people. Not after the way he’d been showered with privileges and riches.

How wrong he’d been.

At eight, Sorinya took to the books, reading about his race, visiting their buildings and communities in Kasandar. In his teen years, he’d gone on a pilgrimage to his homeland and returned a changed man, adopting many Thelusian ways, including a willingness to test his soul against Ainslen whom he considered to be his father and master. As told by the warrior caste that led the Thelusians, a boy earned his freedom, his right to declare himself a man by defeating his parents. Since Sorinya saved Kenslen from the same fate as Marjorie that night in the Smear, his challenges had become more frequent. The Thelusian’s willingness to risk his own life back then was one of the things stopping Ainslen from killing him.

“It will be a while yet before I allow you to have what you seek,” Ainslen said. He liked dealing with the Blades. Despite knowing their upbringing, they acted with as much arrogance as the nobility themselves.

Sorinya shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m trying to help you. By custom, you will have to face me in a year anyway. I would rather you do so now than when I’m in my prime.”

A year. The Thelusian would be thirty then. Well beyond the age the High Priests had declared he would live to see. Sorinya’s growth had dispelled many myths. The oldest being that only a full Dracodar could master at least seven cycles and live beyond his twentieth year. Developing into a Philodar was said to be a death sentence. Ainslen allowed himself a slight smile.

“Anyway, what did you discover while in the Smear?” The excuse of a slight to the Cardiff name had been more than good enough for him to send the Ebon Blade.

Sorinya slapped at his arm. “Blasted pests. Why not live outside if you’re going to keep your windows open and let in these cretins.” He smacked the back of his neck.

“What can I say? I like the fresh air. Ignore them and make your report.”

“There’s been an agreement between certain Consortium members, specifically the leaders of the Shipmen and the Coinmen.” Sorinya nodded to the three decapitated Shaded Snake members. “They didn’t know a lot, and they gave up what they had without too much effort. Supposedly the plans are old man Giorin’s work.”

Ainslen growled under his breath. Ever since the Night of Blades, Delisar had sworn revenge to any who would listen.
I knew I shouldn’t have dismissed him out of hand.
“Did you manage to find anyone besides a Snake to question?”

“Your spy says they’ve been advised to stay off the Smear’s streets and to refrain from their guild’s colors. He did lead me to an establishment where I would have been able to find at least one of the Shipmen, but there were twenty guards posted. As for the Coinmen, House Jarina has extended their protection to them.”

Damn Cardinton. Always meddling. I should have had you killed years ago.
Ainslen let out a deep breath.

“Frustrating isn’t it?” Sorinya chided, “When you wish to fight a man, maybe even kill him, and you can’t?”

“You keep that up, and I will see to it that you never join your people.” Ainslen gave him a flat-eyed stare. “I bet they could use you now, especially with this Farlander threat.”

Sorinya’s face became a twisted mask. His fist clenched. With it came a ripping sound as his right arm burst through his shirt. Black muscles bulging, it was twice as big as the left.

For a brief, panicked instant, Ainslen almost tapped into his soul, but the threat disappeared almost as quickly as it manifested.

“Father or not, I will let you know now,” Sorinya turned to leave, “I will not stand by when they do attack. If it means coming in here and tearing you apart limb by bleeding limb,,” he shrugged, “so be it.”

Ainslen watched the door close on the Thelusian’s wide back. When he could no longer smell the Ebon Blade, he snatched a mosquito from the air and popped it into his mouth. A smile spread across his face with the feeding. He wondered what Sorinya would do if he discovered the truth. He pulled on a rope next to the door. Moments later, an attendant peeked in.

“Send for my son. Tell him I have a gift for him.”