Prodigal Steelwielder (Seals of the Duelists Book 3) (8 page)

Humidity wasn’t the only thing making the foreign diplomat sweat in the royal gardens. Emperor Baltanarmo rested on the cool stone bench beside the slender man in the layered white silks and graying blond braids. Zahira had been right about him all along. “I’m afraid our hospitality has run its course,
Senyer
Sarantis. The time has come for you to return to Karkhedon. You shall carry with you our fulsome thanks for your contributions to our industry and economy, and the people of the Corona look forward to doing business with Karkhedon in the future.”

Sarantis’s damp features struggled with outrage, pleading, and despair before he pressed his lips together, closed his eyes, and attempted to sound rational. “My dear
Senyecho
, great and honorable Baltanarmo, you have ever shown me kindness and hospitality. Have I given offense unawares?”

Baltanarmo shook his head and smiled. “Of course not. Such a thing could not be possible from such an esteemed personage as yourself. I simply wish to exercise due caution for your safety. We are suffering some small internal conflict near Enchamanca, and I would be most embarrassed if you were to suffer as a result. I shall have my
cetechupes
escort you as far as the border so that you may be assured of my concern and care.”

Sarantis blinked several times. Baltanarmo gave him time to formulate his next protestation. It mattered not what the steel merchant said. One way or another, his face would never be seen in court again.

But Sarantis either knew more or guessed more than Baltanarmo expected. His eyes widened, and his brows lowered. “Your consort has more sway than I’d assumed. I once thought her to be an ally, you know, carrying my voice to your ear.”

A peacock called in the distance. Baltanarmo breathed in, letting the desire to backhand the man pass. “My Zahira does not ally with the likes of you. You misjudge her and do insult to her reputation. She has ever been loyal to my family and to no other.”

Sarantis bobbed his head in apology and offered his open palms in a gesture of harmlessness. “I beg forgiveness. The subtlety of your Coronàl ways can still cause a misstep even after years of learning.”

Baltanarmo clapped his hands onto his silk-clad knees and stood abruptly. His lower lip protruded too far, as it often did when he was perturbed, but he couldn’t help it. The man was a heinous toad. “I shall send servants to pack for you. A wagon will be waiting in the courtyard.”

Sarantis stood as well, mouth ajar in consternation. “But
Senyecho
, I must have enough time to send to Karkhedon for escorts to meet me at your border.”

The peacock called again. Baltanarmo’s voice was a mere whisper. “Do you presume to tell me how to order the business of my empire?”

Only then did Sarantis seem to grasp the tenuousness of his situation. “I assure you, I presume nothing of the sort.” Baltanarmo strode away, and Sarantis’s silk soles pattered as the man caught up with him. “Perhaps my most excellent lord has forgotten,” he panted, “the usefulness of my information regarding the Kheerzaal. I’m sure that, given time, my humble mind could serve as an endless font of relevant detail. I beg my lord to extend me only a little more time, before—”

Baltanarmo snapped a hand into the air, and Sarantis blessedly stopped talking, though he trailed after the emperor like a lost duckling until they passed through the Alchazzar’s garden entrance. He scraped the odious man off onto a gaggle of servants and waved them all away.

He ordered a wagon brought to the courtyard then gave special instructions to the driver and assigned him a pair of
cetechupes
. An hour later, he stood on his balcony and observed Sarantis, looking disheveled and harried, mounting the wagon bench while gasping servants loaded a score of large trunks into the back. As the driver clucked to his four fine bays, the Karkhedonian ambassador’s shoulders slumped. He didn’t look up or wave as the wagon pulled onto the wide boulevard fronting the Alchazzar. Baltanarmo brushed his palms against one another in a firm manner, discarding the man from his mind.

The next morning, as the emperor sat at table with his most trusted commanders, enjoying a breakfast of spicy eggs and brined ham in grape leaves, his correspondence servant approached bearing a silver tray. Baltanarmo waved her over and took the letter from her tray as she bowed. The table conversation stilled as he perused the message.

He finished and let a broad smile show. “Good news,
Senyecho
?” asked Marton Ly Ronardo, seated to his right.

Baltanarmo folded the note and tucked it under his golden plate. “It seems Isos Sarantis has changed his mind about remaining within our borders. He finds his new accommodation dreadfully unsatisfactory, I’m afraid, and demands that we free him at once.”

Ly Ronardo affected a courtesan’s expression of delicate shock, employing four of his fingers as a fan to hide his mouth, and turned so the others could appreciate his humor. “But, great lord, if we let him go, he might tell someone we weren’t very
nice
to him. That would ruin all our pretty
plans
!”

Laughter ringed the table, and Baltanarmo smiled tolerantly. “Are you ready to depart, Ly Ronardo?”

Ly Ronardo snapped a crisp bow from the waist, nearly staining his voluminous neck bow with sampacho dipping sauce. “My soldiers await your command.”

“And how do they feel about the theater?”

The commander’s eyebrows flickered with confused interest. “My lads all enjoy a good performance,” he answered gamely.

Baltanarmo grinned at the younger man, one of the few he could legitimately call a friend. “Then you won’t find your orders tiresome. A special contact will meet you in the parade grounds at midmorning to assist in your mission. Make sure you listen carefully to her minder’s instructions. I shouldn’t care for anyone to be left behind.”

The puzzled look in Ly Ronardo’s eyes didn’t delay his acquiescence. “As you command,
Senyecho
.”

Baltanarmo sat back and patted his full stomach. Marton would rather die than disappoint him. Solid commanders like him were worth their weight in rubies. Still, no one at the table could touch Zahira’s sort of loyalty. An ache twisted his heart, and he prayed that she would return to him soon.

Iulan sat on the down-filled cushion atop his platform in the middle of the corn field and scratched his unruly salt-and-pepper hair. The hexbird at his feet gave a quick hop then squawked once. “Aye, shut it, Griogair. Ye’ll be getting yer meal when it’s time, and none before. Why don’t ye get it yerself? Ye’ve become too reliant on wee mortal me.”

The hexbird thrust his beak upward, affronted by the very suggestion that he should do his own work. He ruffled his feathers then preened his wings until they were smooth again.

Iulan was not fooled. “Aye, beastie. Ye know I’m right, and I know ye know it. Ye canna hide the truth from an anima caster.”

Griogair glared at him with a dark, beady eye.

Iulan shook his head. “Nae, tisna my fault ye chose a mortal form. Doona look at me with that beady bird eye of yours. If ye doona like me inside yer tiny bird brain, then choose again. Ye’ll have no complaint from me. Aye, then ye’d be somewhere else, and I’d not have tae put up with yer great stupid attitude. Better all around, I say.”

The bird turned its tail toward Iulan, flared its fathers in insult, then took to the air, cawing angrily. Iulan smiled. Griogair would be back. He always came back.

The sun climbed higher in the sky, warming Iulan’s cheeks and legs. Spring was slow to arrive in the northern province of Aeolis, but when it did come, Iulan embraced it with fervor.
Who would have thought that an old Treinfhir like me would have found a home within the borders of the empire, without horsekillers and suchlike coming tae kill me? All thanks tae Aleida.

Duelist Aleida, perhaps wanting to see more of the world after the lengthy underground slumber she had endured at the hands of Ignaas witten Oost, had insisted on accompanying Iulan back to his Tuathi clan. Iulan’s people had been overjoyed to see him, but a different sort of joy had lit in the eyes of Murchadh, Iulan’s oldest son, and it had been reflected in equal measure in Aleida’s.

Though she had already been assigned to a duel den in a border town in Aeolis, far to the north, Aleida somehow managed to wrangle plenty of portal time from the Singers, ostensibly to continue checking that Iulan was adjusting to being back home.

Iulan didn’t blame her for throwing herself back into life, not after what that bastard witten Oost had forced her to endure. Murchadh and Aleida’s wedding had taken place before Dark Yule.

Iulan’s clansmen had not understood his desire to move his family across the border into the lands of their ancient enemies, but they did comprehend his gratitude to Aleida and her friends. They voted that he and his family could move into Waarden lands if they so chose, and so they had.

Unfortunately, the weather in Aeolis was far colder than the soft winter rains that soaked the rolling hills of his clan’s lands west of Balanganam. While Iulan’s wife, Caith, began weaving imported horse hair and selling it to the locals, Iulan became a sun worshiper. His official title was Guardian of the Crops. The villagers had been distinctly uncomfortable with his anima magic until he’d offered to keep the dark clouds of swiftjays and starlings at bay when they tried to descend on newly planted crops. Iulan’s first spring guarding the crops that ringed Katacha had been such an enormous success that the farmers bought Iulan and his family a house and promised to pay for its rent from the extra crop income every year. That had pleased Caith, to be sure, as they still had two mouths at home to feed. Suddenly, Iulan had not felt like a burden against Aleida’s importance within the community. And he was the Guardian of the Crops.

A few small clusters of swiftjays dared to veer in over the fields within Iulan’s range of sight, but he mentally informed them of tasty swaths of wild insects to the south of town, and they dutifully flapped away to stuff themselves on swamp bugs.

Eventually, Griogair returned. Iulan pulled a large chunk of bread from a pouch and let his open palm rest on the planks behind him. A sudden pressure, then the bread lifted from his hand. “Be welcome. While ye were out, did ye have a word with that bloody amassment of crows from the fir forests north of town? They have the tendency to forget me words as quickly as possible.”

The hexbird squawked and walked around to the front of the platform. Instead of meeting Iulan’s eye, he pointed his beak out across the field, surveying his personal territory.

Iulan nodded. “Ye have me thanks, then. Tis likely ye will always have better congress with the crows than I will.”

Griogair croaked again.

Iulan leaned back onto his hands and surveyed the patchwork of pale green shoots that spread out like a quilt before him. He heaved a great sigh of contentment. “Did I tell ye me son’s wife is gotten with a bairn?”

The bird hopped closer and bobbed his beak.

Iulan nodded as well. “Aye, and ye would know before me. Ye should have said. I had tae wait for the official announcement yesternight. She said she’d already begun training tae bind her savantism tae maternal instinct. Ye know what I say tae that? I say, woe be tae any man who comes between that woman and her family. I may be this empire’s only anima caster, but I tell ye this, bird. If there should be any power I fear, that would be Aleida should something happen tae her family. And did ye see her beads today? She’s put all new ones on. They’re all rosy and pinkish-like, noo. I tell ye, the woman’s embracing motherhood in a way nae ordinary woman can. I love the lass, but I doona like anything so much as staying out of her way.”

A cluster of dark dots blotted out the brightness on the eastern horizon. Iulan gave his feathered companion a flick with his finger, startling the creature. “Look lively, now, bird. Here come the Eastern Spruce Clan of the Lowland Swallows.” Iulan hopped to his feet and directed his attention eastward. “Tis time tae do battle for the crops of Katacha.”

Young children ran alongside the circus caravan, calling and waving up to Bayan and Sabella. “
Ay, senyer
, where are your reins?” a brave lad shouted, pointing to the pair of glossy black mares pulling Bayan’s wagon.

Bayan raised his hands and turned them back to front. “I’m Bayan the Wanderer. I don’t need reins. The horses know where I want to go.”

Sabella nudged his ribs, although she kept her eyes forward. “Quit dancing atop Cresconio’s decision to let you lead the caravan this time. We all know you’ve coveted it ever since you joined us.”

Bayan made tossing motions toward the young children, and small shiny pennies appeared midair, tumbling to the dusty ground. They squealed with delight and scrambled after them. “Of course I always wanted to ride first. There’s no dust up here, and the view has far less horse arse in it.”

Ordomiro’s heavy hand clapped down on Bayan’s shoulder from beneath the covered wagon bed. “That’s my opportunistic lad. You’ll make a proper
Coronàle
yet.” His other hand reached forward, offering a shallow platter laden with freshly sliced citrics and strawberries.

Sabella picked up a piece of fruit with each hand and began nibbling. “Bayan’s been creating money for the urchins again. I’ve half a mind to report him to Cresconio this time.”

“Half a mind, eh? That’s a good quarter more than last time. Another two years, Bayan, and I think she might finally have the whole set.” Ordomiro cheerfully commandeered a handful of slices with his sturdy, square fingers, forced the platter into Bayan’s hands, and began munching.

Bayan shot him a distracted glance as he handed the platter to Sabella. “Oi, don’t disturb the anima caster while he’s driving.”

Ordomiro snorted around his food. “As if you could, swampcaster.”

Bayan smiled at the genial insult. It seemed that his homeland of Balanganam was the only place left in the world where adults were expected to be polite to each other at all times. “You touch your food with those hands, ink fingers?”

Ordomiro’s juicy fingers mussed Bayan’s crown tail from behind. “Short staff.”

“Sabella is perfectly fond of my staff, thank you very much, willow worm.”

“Ho, the blackard foreigner touches on manly matters, does he? I see which way his boots are pointing. Sabella, my dark angel. Honor me tonight with the presence of your skin.”

Bayan nearly choked on the first bite of his citric slice.
Two years ago, I was faced with the prospect of eternal virginity as a servant of the empire. Now I’m bedding a magic goddess, and my friend casually asks to share her skin!
“I know you Corona types are more lyrical than us backward imperials, but honestly, I didn’t really hear that much romance in your request. If I were Sabella, I’d be quite affronted.”

Sabella threw back her head and emitted a full belly laugh. One hand squeezed Bayan’s forearm comfortingly. Then she turned to give Ordomiro a coy look. “You need my skin? What would you do with it if I lent it to you for the night?”

Ordomiro’s squatted and rested his forearms against the bench, leaning forward to speak over the rumble of the wheels. “I have a new idea. What if I draw my magical symbols on the skin of an elemental caster, using the same herbal ink I use to cast the elemental spells myself? What do you think will happen?”

Bayan heard the eager anticipation in Ordomiro’s voice and found it contagious. Memories of breaking into the Periorion and discovering the ancient book of duelism flooded his mind.

Sabella turned to Ordomiro. “I suppose,
cazan
, that means I’m all yours tonight.” Her heavy lashes fluttered down, then her eyes rose to Bayan’s again. “Bayan can watch if he wants to.”

Enchalla, their destination city, came into view around the curve of a terraced hillside, rife with the ripe blue-green heads of bechisi maize. The scents of rich earth and perfumed flowers rode thick upon the breeze, and Bayan inhaled deeply. Though it was barely spring by the imperial calendar, Corona crops in the
valio
were well on their way to maturity.
Still a farm boy at heart. I’ll never get tired of the beauty of growing things.

Bayan directed the mares to circle outside the city walls until they reached the broad, tamped earth area the city council had promised for Cresconio’s use for the next ten days. The wagons pulled out of their orderly train and scattered to their prearranged locations, and the crew began unloading and setting up camp with practiced ease. Bayan stood for a moment before dismounting and took a good look around. His curiosity had risen, seemingly on its own, and he sought an explanation. Had something caught his eye? He perused the area with more focus.

More terraced hills surrounded the walled town, their low, rounded mounds clustering together as far as the eye could see. Some bore stripes of deep blue-green, others the vivid purple flowers of the ascanilla blossom, the forward maiden’s proposal flower. Still others, on the opposite side of the town, bore tall hops trellises, sturdy enough to be seen without magical vision enhancement.

“Well, at least the beer’s good here.” Ordomiro’s slapped Bayan’s shoulder and hopped off the wagon.

Bayan nodded absentmindedly. He still hadn’t spotted what had tugged at his mind. He closed his eyes to focus on his other senses. Sounds magnified, creaking leather and wood, thumps, conversation and barked commands, the snap of canvas, the whickering of tired horses. A warm, humid breeze brushed across his skin and riffled through his sticky hair, bearing earthen scents. It also brought a mineral tang—a sharp, familiar, deathly important smell.

He jerked his head and looked to the left. Just beyond the nearest terraced hill, he could just make out the dark stippling in the air: the rising smoke of one of the Corona’s numerous steel manufactories. His gut clenched. Though steel posed no threat now, he would never forget the terrifying panic of being impaled by a steel weapon, his magic completely out of his reach.

Shortly after his exile, Bayan had discovered how to delve objects and determine their elemental makeup. With steel prevalent in the Corona, he’d wasted no time in sieving Ordomiro’s dagger for its contents. The answer to the age-old question of why steel disrupted focused elemental magic was as simple as it was stunning: the carbon in Corona steel came from hog bones. Anima and Earth, representing two halves of the same magic, were bonded into a single substance and couldn’t exist near a duelist who had cut himself off from one of the magics without ruining his attempts to use the other.

“Bayan. Any moment now.”

His awareness expanded again, letting in more of the world than that distant smoke over the rise. The terracing, the town, the circus. Sabella. “Sorry. Coming.” He hopped down from the wagon with a lift of wind magic and caught up with her and Ordomiro as they approached a half circle of tent-laden wagons. Together, the three of them were the personal tent setup team for the entire circus. As the other circus folk left their wagons to take care of other tasks, Bayan, Sabella, and Ordomiro unleashed their magic at the folded tents in the wagon beds, pulling them like cordwood, snapping them open, lining them up in midair, and driving their stakes deep into the earth.

Row after row of tents slammed themselves into the earth in orderly fashion. After as much practice as they got from the circus’s constant motion around the Corona, Bayan and his friends finished soon and with little effort. Sabella always insisted on setting up her own tent all by herself. She danced the golden silk structure into place in the middle of the center row, the place of highest honor.

The three finished off Ordomiro’s fruit snack and refreshed themselves with a little wine. Sabella said, “
Valio
Ouachasta
has had some riots recently. I hope we don’t see trouble.”

Ordomiro’s snorted. He gulped his wine noisily. “There’s always trouble. That’s why we’re here, after all, isn’t it? We are
Yl Senyecho
’s solution.”

Sabella sent him a sympathetic look. “I meant that I need to focus during my performance, just as the both of you do. The other acts wouldn’t be so affected. But we,
we
are what everyone comes to see. We are the heart of the circus.” She gestured behind her with her cup. “You may note who has the golden tent.”

A small squirm of discomfort wiggled once in Bayan’s gut. Though he could not deny that the magical acts were by far the biggest draws in Cresconio’s circus—in any circus anywhere—his mind still rankled at the idea of magic users considering themselves inherently superior to villagers.
And yet, I still refer to them as villagers, don’t I? I think there’s a line here somewhere, but I’m honestly not sure which side of it I’m on.

Sabella continued, “I don’t understand why they can’t be happy as they are. They are the industrial heart of the Corona. They’re the only ones allowed to create steel, and the whole Corona uses their fine metalwork. It’s everywhere. The Karkhedonian ambassador may be our biggest importer of raw materials, but if Ouachasta didn’t work the ores in their smelteries, the Corona would be as backward as the Waarden. Don’t they realize how much we need them to keep doing what they do?”

Bayan couldn’t keep silent. “But none who live in a steel-making
valio
can use magic in their work. The bakers in that town right there can’t use magic to make sure their bread and cake bake evenly, but just over those hills, in the next
valio
, bakers can use all the magic they can afford. I understand about not being able to use magic to make the steel, but I don’t really follow why everyone else in the
valio
is banned from using it. It’s not as if steel were contagious. Right?”

Ordomiro let out a heavy sigh and downed the rest of his wine. “All I care is that I please my audience, please the ladies, and please my money pouch on coin day. Other than that, I keep my chin out of everyone’s politics as much as possible.” He thumped his glass down and stalked off.

Bayan watched him go, then turned to Sabella. “Did I say something wrong?”

Her green eyes were wide and serious. “Bayan, Ordomiro was born here in
Valio
Ouachasta. If he hadn’t run away to join the circus before his father could apprentice him, he would never have been allowed to use his magic. Because Cresconio bases his circus in
Valio
Sejueno
,
we are all free to perform no matter where we travel, but Ordomiro knows there are others who cannot leave their
valios
, those whose gifts wither and die within their souls, never freed. At the same time, he feels duty bound to Cresconio for his freedom. Please don’t press him. He’s conflicted enough as it is.”

Bayan felt his lower jaw sag. He’d known Ordomiro for nearly two years, and the man had never spoken once about his origins. Bayan had experience with painful secrets. His sympathy and guilt blended for having accidentally stepped on Ordomiro’s. “I’ll go catch him and apologize.”

But the inkmage was fast and had melded into the crowds drifting out from the walled city before Bayan could catch up to him. Bayan sped up, weaving amongst the townsfolk and dashing children, but he dared not use his magic to try to find Ordomiro in the middle of a strange crowd, especially one to which
Yl Senyecho
had given a pacifying distraction to prevent a riot.

Feeling more naked then he was comfortable with outside Sabella’s tent, Bayan did his best to keep an eye on the back of Ordomiro’s light-brown head as the man bobbed through the foot traffic that swarmed past the city’s gate shops. His task was made easier by the fact that the majority of the Corona’s citizens were some shade of blond, and by contrast, Ordomiro’s darker hair stood out. With his short stature and black hair, Bayan stood out like a wagon full of pearl turtles, and he drew his fair share of curious looks as he made his way down the broad avenue.

He lost sight of Ordomiro for a moment, then spotted him again near a brightly colored canvas awning. He followed the man to one of Enchalla’s main roundabouts, where, amidst constant wagon and carriage traffic and hundreds of pedestrians, the man briefly turned. Bayan’s guts clenched in surprise. It wasn’t Ordomiro.

Ay, Bhattara. What are the odds of two brown-haired men wandering the same street?
Bayan leapt out of the way of a rattletrap wagon and stood on the curb of the inner circle of the roundabout, watching the traffic flash and rumble around him. Dozens of curious faces briefly studied him and then moved on. None of those approaching from the street he’d just been on were Ordomiro, either.
I’ve well and truly lost him. I guess my apology can wait until tonight.

Bayan waited for a lull in the wheeled traffic, then dashed back the direction he had come, hands jammed into his rumpled pockets in defeat. With more time to look around on his return to the city gates, Bayan surmised that the broad avenue held more merchants selling perishables because of its proximity to the trade route. One large emporium on the opposite side of the avenue seemed to sell only steel products. Men and women alike exited its open courtyard, bearing everything from kitchen implements to small hardware trinkets. Bayan shuddered at the implications of such a shop in the same city as a Waarden duel den.