Prodigal Steelwielder (Seals of the Duelists Book 3) (7 page)

The letter began to dampen from the sweat on Eward’s palm. Had it really been so long since he had battled for his life that he had forgotten what it felt like to fight, to be uncertain, to think on his feet? Was he really so tame? “You want to know if I will fly the diplomat to the Kheerzaal on my Wind avatar if we come under attack? Yes. I serve at the pleasure of the Emperor of the Waarden Empire.”

Imee’s tanned face creased in a brilliant smile. “Excellent. Now, you may escort me back to the gate.”

Eward offered her his hand and helped her step onto his barely visible wind disc. She pressed herself against his side, and he wrapped an arm around her slender waist to make sure she didn’t fall. His disc bore them across the sand, first in a straight line, slow and sedate, and then he sped up and began weaving around the landscaping. Imee squealed in delight and clung harder to him, clearly enraptured by the process. Their progress drew the eye of every other patron on the beach.

At the gate, which the guards duly opened for them, Imee stepped down with reluctance and gave Eward a grateful smile. “Thank you, Duelist. I’ll ready my men at once. We’ll array ourselves at the docks with the tide to meet this Corona diplomat, and we’ll see to his lodgings for the night. I’ll discuss travel arrangements with him and prepare our own supplies. Will you need a wagon for your sundries?”

Eward shook his head. “I won’t be bringing much with me. I’m sure we can find a place to tuck it in.”

Imee nodded. “Then be at my office before dawn tomorrow morning. We’ll go over final preparations before I walk you to the caravanserai.” She headed down the street with a lightness to her step.

Eward
smiled
. No wonder Philo chose her.

The tide rose just before sunset, bringing in a flood of ships to Renallen’s vast dock system. Eward spotted Imee’s guard cohort by their vast number, uniformly black hair, and bulging muscles. As his feet trod the broad wooden boardwalk, he tallied eighty-eight men in Imee’s employ. They stood in even ranks, leather breastplates proudly oiled and gleaming with the dyed symbol of Imee’s business, a swirl of red and blue.

He reached Imee’s cohort and nodded in greeting, then studied the approaching cadre of ships and picked out the Corona vessel. Its design was outlandish, exotic, and brightly colored like the birds he’d seen on the promenade beach. Twin lateen sails, red as blood, winged up and out from the ship’s deck, and a small blue spinnaker marked with a golden crown pulled the ship toward the docks.

“Have you ever seen a Corona ship before?” Imee asked.

Eward shook his head. “My father probably did. He was a sailor. I used to live on the eastern shore of Byanneken.”

The stately vessel eased its way into port, and the sailors tossed mooring lines down to the waiting deckhands, who secured the boat against the dock with a minimum of fuss. An elaborate gangplank, complete with velvet rails and individual stair steps, swung out over the ship’s rail and touched down on the dock. As passengers and supplies began to disembark, sailors used pulleys to swing the bright red sails in a broad half circle until they paralleled the deck at the other end of the ship. Only then did the men begin to take them down and fold them away into their casings.

Eward caught sight of a skinny man in overly formal garb descending the gangplank. “I think that’s our man.” As he crossed the dock, it became apparent that, though the Corona diplomat wore a tall, pillar-shaped hat, he was shorter than Eward. The man bore a thin, short, blond beard, and his upper lip was bare.
Poor fellow. As old as Cavan, but his facial hair never got out of puberty.
“A thousand fair greetings, good sir. Welcome to the Waarden Empire. I’m Avatar Duelist Eward Raalgat, sent to greet you by the His Imperial Majesty himself. Was your journey satisfactory?”

The thin man sucked air through his over-large nostrils and favored Eward with a critical look. “The journey was acceptable. You have prepared accommodation? This wretch of a captain does not know the meaning of the term ‘food.’”

Eward didn’t answer, being too distracted by the diplomat’s high, artistic voice and affected half-lisp.

Imee pressed Eward aside and took the diplomat’s hand in both of hers. “I’ll escort you directly. I’m Merchant Imee Magittang, and I will be directly responsible for your care and security as we travel north to the Kheerzaal. If you have any requests, any at all, you may bring them directly to me. How are you styled?”

The little man seemed both startled and pleased by Imee’s forwardness. “I am Erinando dyly Gonsala. I am the
Conecho Uniqo dyl Reyo Ochidala
. You, pretty flower, may style me Erinando.”

Imee glued herself to the diplomat’s side as she escorted him down the dock. “My men will see to your belongings and their security overnight, and they will maintain constant shifts to ensure your privacy and security at all times. I am also in possession of a healer, should you need refreshing after your journey. How many men would you like me to assign to escort you this evening?”

Erinando mumbled something about whatever Imee thought was best. Eward crossed his arms as she motioned half a dozen men to surround them as a miniature honor guard. She didn’t look back at him even once as she escorted the diplomat away.

“She does that, you know. Fair warning.”

Eward turned to see the burly Balang who had been behind Imee’s front desk. “And you are?”

The man offered a strong hand. “Dakila. Formerly of Pangusay. I hear you’re traveling with us.” He glanced up at a netted cluster of crates being lowered to the dock, then turned Eward’s hand so that his avatar tattoo faced upward. “You could get a head start by helping us with the unloading.”

Is this how trade duelists feel after a score of years in the emperor’s service? Peppered with mundane requests that don’t live up to the glory of their magic? Or are Cavan and his vaunted arrogance actually rubbing off on me?
Eward sighed. “Where should I set them down?”

Tala hunched against the cold, dry air that had settled in the bottom of the Temple bowl as she made her way across the decorated stone floor.
Isn’t there a solo class somewhere that needs to practice their air-warming tunes?

“Hail, Tala!” Tala hunched further at the sound of Graela’s voice. “Aren’t you tired yet of being the only student in the entire Temple who still has to be monitored at every class? And taking up the First Singer’s time like that, too! Too bad we can’t sing the stain of your existence out of the Temple. You’re a walking disaster.” Graela continued on with a small cluster of giggling friends toward their Trio class.

I really should be in that Trio class with them. I’m better than all of them put together.
Tala indulged her bitterness for a long moment.
But what I’m really doing with the First Singer is much more important than fitting in with the popular singers
.

She entered the lower door in the tower where the First Singer had her office. Eschewing the curling staircase, Tala stepped into the high, smooth shaft and sang a burst of air beneath her feet, raising her to the top of the tower. Before the wind blast could fade, she hopped out onto a warm brown floor embedded with seashells.

“See,” she said, smoothing back her hair, “I told you it would work. You really should try it sometime.”

Liselot de Vosen, First Singer of the Temple of Ten Thousand Harmonies, looked up from her desk and arched a doubtful eyebrow. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to sing yourself a wind burst to save you from splattering at the bottom of that shaft while you’re falling?”

“No, it’s never happened. Do you?”

The First Singer raised her chin. “I have absolutely no intention of finding out. If you keep floating yourself everywhere, your muscles will lose their proper trim, and you won’t be able to sing properly. I want you to use the stairs.”

Tala crossed her arms in defiance and met the First Singer’s stare.

After a long moment, Liselot’s mouth softened. She let out a conciliatory breath, then gestured for Tala to sit. Tala slid into one of the sung wood chairs but kept her arms crossed. The First Singer leaned forward onto her elbows. “Tala. Don’t do this to yourself. It wasn’t your fault.”

Tala’s lower lip trembled, and she tightened her jaw. “It was my fault. I picked Sanaala. I thought she was ready, but I was wrong.”

The First Singer sat back again and sighed. “I suppose that makes it my fault, then, that your classmates despise you so. I’m sorry for that necessary deception.”

“This was my idea. I came to you.”

Liselot held her hands out helplessly. “And I agreed. You are my responsibility, as are all the singers in the temple. Sanaala is far more my responsibility than yours. I insist that you stop blaming yourself for what happened, Tala. We simply don’t have the time.”

Tala shifted on the smooth, golden wood. It wasn’t the first time she and Liselot had clashed over who should take the blame for the death of the youngest coterie member, and it wouldn’t be the last. But she was right. Tala really couldn’t afford to mourn or question herself. Unfortunately, her mind continued to do both, even as she performed her duties. “Where am I going?”

“The Kheerzaal. The Minister of Information needs an update.”

She slid a small wooden carving across her desktop, and Tala picked it up. Its surface bore the image of three stylized daisies, each with varying numbers of petals in different colors. “All six passed. He’ll be pleased.”

Tala cast her portal to Philo’s office, but when she stood before the Minister of Information, his expression was anything but pleased. He let the carving clatter to his broad ebony desktop and heaved an angry sigh through his nose. Tala waited in silence, clutching her black crystals. The powerful eunuch stood quietly behind his desk, but his body language shouted of agitation. His high, curly salmon wig fairly trembled with tension. “Do you understand, my dear, the fix the Academy continues to put me in? Do you see the flip side of the ducat of their extraordinary success?”

Tala blinked in surprise. “I’m sorry, Minister. I don’t. Is there something I can pass on to the First Singer for you?”

The eunuch heaved a sigh and paced to the window, where he clasped his beringed hands behind his back and peered down on the damp stone walkways of the Kheerzaal. “Unfortunately, Liselot is not in a position to aid in relieving this situation. In fact, the exact problem is that
no one
is in a position to fix this. None of us realized what would happen when so many of the Academy’s duelists embraced savantism. No one could see it coming, not even me. And ultimately, the fault is mine. Here I am, in a fix of my own making, and despite all of my experience, I cannot see a way to free myself of it. I fear we are in for a catastrophic clash with a thousand years of tradition.”

Tala gasped in surprise. “It’s that bad? What’s going on? Do I need to inform the Hexmates?”

The large man spun, graceful in his elaborate silks. “No, silly girl. Even they are helpless.”

“I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I should not have snapped at you. It isn’t your fault.” He leaned against the edge of his desk. His plump hands offered her the weighty issue. “You see, savantism makes our duelists stronger than ever. Even though less than half of the students on campus are savants, there are still over a hundred of them because of the emperor’s waves. He swamped the Academy with over two hundred new students in a single year, and almost all of them are still training on campus. I get letters from duel dens every day, demanding to know when the next Talent Tournament will be, if it will be anywhere near them, and when they will get their promised quota of new duelists. Do you see the problem? We are training our Duelists Savant for much longer than most students remain on campus. Duelists in dens around the empire are retiring or getting potioneered following injury, and no one is replacing them. Their numbers are noticeably declining. I have no one to replace them with because Academy rules state that students must remain on campus until they top out. And none of the savants are topping out. Absolutely none of them.” He threw his hands into the air. “We’ve made an entire generation of hexmages, and not only can we
not
tell anyone outside the Academy about it, but the empire is going to murder us for not telling them what we’re doing, and they’ll probably try to murder the hexmages once they figure it out. This was a colossally idiotic plan. Why did I ever think this was going to work?” Philo beat his fists against his pink forehead.

Tala held very still in the face of the minister’s tantrum. “What can we do?”

Philo flung his hands wide and let out a frustrated mew. “My dear girl, I will let you have my fortune in its entirety, down to the very last pinky ring I possess, if you can answer your own question. This problem has been walking down the road for two years. Nothing can divert it now. I fear our only option is to try to spin prejudice into greed. If the duel dens are anything like the instructors on campus, they will want hexmages left and right. It’s not them I’m worried about. Duelists, deep down, are very practical people.”

Tala’s crystals had grown slick with the sweat of her nervous palms. She brushed their smooth facets against her tabard. “Then who? The emperor?”

Philo gave her a look full of defeat. “Exactly. The emperor and those noble families who support him. Their number dwindles every holiday or so, it seems, but the emperor won’t run out of support anytime soon. Akkeraad boasts more noble houses than I have pearls studding my wigs. The traditionalists who stand against our dissident factions wield great power, and they have the law on their side. If any of them were to hear the slightest whisper of our institutionalized savantism, we might as well lop off our own heads and hand them over.”

Tala’s mouth tightened. “Then you think of a way to fix this, minister. I know how long it can take to change tradition. But if we wait that long, the Hexmates will be dead of old age before anyone can accept what they’ve done. You and I know what they have sacrificed to achieve what they’ve become. We just need a way to tell that story to everyone else. Right?”

The minister nodded, a distracted look on his face. “Telling stories,” he mused. He stood up abruptly and fixed Tala with a piercing look. “Thank you, my dear. I may be able to work with that idea.”

“But… How?”

Philo smiled beatifically and ushered her to the distant end of the room, which had been set aside for portaling. “It’s my job, remember, to pull together whispers and spider webs. I will set to work at once on blunting the inevitable blow. I pray it will be enough to spare our lives, if not our jobs.”

Tala nodded and sang a portal home. As she stepped into the First Singer’s office again, Liselot looked up from where she was singing a small mist to moisten a cluster of mossy plants. “And how is the Minister of Information today?”

Tala grasped her crystals to shut the portal behind her and shook her head with uncertainty. “He’s as well as any of us, which apparently means that the emperor could order our deaths at any moment.”