The Four Forges (50 page)

He brushed by a group of women who were discussing a healer who seemed to have an affinity for erasing wrinkles although his fee was nothing less than extravagant. The speakers were Kernan, although a veiled one stood nearby, a quirk of amusement to her mouth as she overheard. The mayor stood in a corner, well buttressed by his entourage and nearly unapproachable, but Sevryn had no business with Stonehand. The man knew where he stood with the Vaelinars and the Accords. Grand Mayor Randall Hawthorne, if he came to the Conference later, would be the man to collar. When the news reached him, he would come. Till then, Sevryn could only speculate about the Grand Mayor Hawthorne’s position.

When a trader’s herald came in, Oxfort and the young guildsman spotted each other immediately and the herald made a beeline toward him. Bregan stepped back from the crowd, isolating himself so that the herald could approach him. Bregan put one hand on the young man’s shoulder as the other leaned toward his ear quietly. What words were passed, Sevryn couldn’t guess, for they were clearly out of earshot, but Bregan quickly turned his body about so that his expression couldn’t be read as if he did not trust himself not to show it.

Sevryn eased his way closer. Nothing would be gotten from Oxfort as he lifted a cup to his lips and kept it there for a long moment, not drinking but hiding a coin bit dropped into the herald’s palm for his trouble. The trader’s herald turned heel and left, Sevryn right behind him, even as the young man tugged his tabard into place and neatly palmed the half crown tip Oxfort had given him, Sevryn moving so quietly that few even noticed him leave.

He caught up with the messenger in the alleyway outside the large building, taking his elbow, and, unleashing his Talent said quietly, without letting him turn about. “You have news you need to tell me.”

The youth froze at his touch, head going back slightly in response to the Voice, and murmured, “I already told you all, milord. I swear.”

“Tell me again, and then all is forgiven and forgotten.”

“But-but . . . I just did . . .”

“The weather is hot, and you light-headed. I want to be sure you overlooked nothing.
Now give me the news
.”

He fought Sevryn for a few more moments, then his arm went limp as the slight youth in his hold began shaking.

The herald had been trained against this, and Sevryn could see no way to get what he wanted without breaking him completely. He gave up on the tactic, sorted through his thoughts, and decided that there would have to be another way. Sevryn said softly, “Well done. You have a future as a herald.” He released the young trader who sagged against the side of the building and never saw him step away.

Retreating to the corner of the alleyway, he paused to set himself to follow. The herald wobbled away, staggering as if drunk or sun-struck. He trailed, unsure of his course of action, knowing that the herald would be unlikely to show up at the guild and tell his master word for word what he’d just told Bregan, and also knowing that his own lack of appearance at the hall might soon be noticed. Even as he weighed options, he saw a splinter of darkness sunder from a corner and angle after the still tottering herald.

Someone lying in wait or just an opportunist?

Sevryn hesitated as to his obligation. And, in that moment, the predator caught the unwary quarry and pinned him to the dust of the alleyway. Like a small bird fluttering under a hawk, the herald struggled briefly, then stopped as the other hissed to him, “You carry a message. I would know what it is. Before you think of silence, consider that I am Kobrir and your silence will be eternal.”

Both herald and Sevryn froze at that. His shoulders to the back of the small buildings comprising the alleyways, Sevryn drew a little closer after taking a shallow breath.

It seemed as if the herald managed to draw a breath as well. Then he let it out in a thin, wailing sound that might have been a sob or might have been a cut windpipe. A glint of light in the hands of an otherwise all-darkened figure cut the air. Sevryn poised on the balls of his feet, considering his course of action, when the herald bleated out, “Word reached the guild just a few moments ago. The hanging sword has fallen. Traders need to be wary of levies.”

“You told this to Bregan Oxfort?”

“I did.”

“Anything else?”

“No, milord.”

“Then we are done.” Kobrir’s hand shifted, and the herald’s legs shook once, heels drumming into the ground, and then went terribly still. Sevryn pulled back, and broke into a swift walk as soon as he was clear of the alley, a tightness in his throat and anger knotting his stomach, his own chance to strike lost, and a life wasted, a life that he had put into the Kobrir’s reach.

Mouth tasting of bitterness, he mulled over the message.

Lariel would need to know before the session opened. Oxfort’s code, if it was even that, could not be easier to decipher. Gilgarran had oft referred to the Galdarkans, the last of the vast Magi Empire, as swords hanging over the scattered free-trade provinces. Speculation that the elite soldiers of the long lost Magi might consolidate one day had always been held, the surprise was only that it had been so long in coming. Rather like the debate over the Accords.

Do all things, he wondered, happen in a day?

He merged back into the petitioners’ lobby, with a half smile he did not mean, and a nudge to a pretty young serving lady who offered a chilled blush wine that tasted far more palatable than the failure drying his throat. It would do for a bracer, and he decided to recommend it to both Jeredon and Lariel.

PETITIONERS’ DAY STRETCHED into Petitioners’ Night revelry, and Sevryn found himself more and more rankled by his inaction. When had it become more important to spy rather than to act? He should have saved the herald, revealing himself, and losing the information if he had. Nothing Gilgarran would have muttered about the greater good would have soothed his regrets. Even the fine blush wine did little to help. He did not respect his decision. He determined not to make another like it. He would not keep a part of himself locked away, filled with similar choices and regrets. He would find a way to serve his queen and himself.

Sevryn stayed in a corner, venturing out now and then only to talk to a new petitioner or lobbyist entering the reception, doing more listening than talking, murmuring a few responses as needed before drifting back to being inconspicuous. Or so he thought. He looked up from his long-nurtured drink to see Azel d’Stanthe of Ferstanthe watching him, the tall and rangy historian-librarian considering him from across the room. It would be imprudent to pretend he hadn’t noticed, so he crossed to Azel, and gave him a slight, sardonic toast.

“Evening, milord, or so I believe it is by the drunkenness attained by most of those about us.”

“An astute observation, I would say. It’s been a long while since I attended the Petitioners’ Day, or even a Conference, but it seems little has changed.” Azel held a goblet close to his vest, but it looked and smelled as if it held only fruited juice and that greatly watered down.

“I might wonder what brings you out for either.”

“Even an old, buried stone should be unearthed and turned once in a while. They say fresh air does wonders.” Azel chuckled briefly. “You wear your emissary badge.”

“I can remove it, if you wish,” responded Sevryn.

“Remove it rhetorically and come onto the balcony.” Azel moved off nonchalantly with a nod, as if dismissing him, and Sevryn turned away.

After very long moments and an uncomfortable chat with a petitioner’s daughter who had attended her father’s business only in hopes of trawling for a husband of high status, Sevryn escaped to the balcony. The loveliness of the Kernan lass held no appeal under the circumstances, and he was afraid Azel might have given up on him. He found the librarian leaning on his elbows, looking into the last of a very grand sunset, clouds light and dark and streaked with oranges, ambers, and reds of the dying light.

“If you’re going to ask me if I can serve two masters,” Sevryn said, sliding into place next to him on the balcony, “I will have to tell you, regretfully, that I cannot. But I do remove the badge, and often, to have a life of my own.”

“Plainly spoken.”

“You have seen and recorded far more than I could ever hope to. Subterfuge seems a little disingenuous around you.”

“Yet still wise, I think.” Azel looked down toward the street. “I saw a darkness down there a few moments ago, seemingly of shadow, yet moving with a purpose that was not random. I’ll be brief. I came to Calcort to do a little research, both to promote the project I will submit before the Houses and also because of your recent visit. Folk songs and rhymes are often an oral history, long after that history might have been banned or distorted.” The librarian paused, and took a sip of his juice. “It is often useful and sometimes disturbing to note those who come to my collections, what they seek, and what they find.”

“Perhaps a talk can put your mind to rest.” Sevryn would have said more, but a roar of noise from the rooms at their back rose, like a tide of merriment and disagreement.

D’Stanthe waited until it muted. “Or set yours in motion,” he returned. “We must find a better way to talk, and soon.” Then, with a grace belying his slightly stooped bulk, he merged back into the meeting rooms and crowd, spotted only by his height as he walked away.

Azel’s words raised possibilities Sevryn hadn’t considered before. Who had been to the libraries, and why?

 
 
Hosmer’s square form filled the doorway to the storeroom, his arms crossed over his chest, a sparkle in his eyes as he watched his sisters stowing away their tools and fabrics for the day. “From the looks of the fine lasses who come through the door, I should be here more often.”

Nutmeg pushed him aside with a shove from her hip as she came through, bolts in her arms. “If you’re going t’ stand around, be helpful!”

Hosmer laughed as she tripped over a trailing edge, catching her by one arm and her bundle with his other arm. He placed her firmly on her feet and crossed the area to the back, where he and Keldan had built shelves and racks for incoming stock. “That helpful enough for you?”

Nutmeg gave a muffled snort. She flounced her skirts back into order as Rivergrace carefully ignored the sibling bickering she’d grown up with. It was good to see Hosmer hale and hearty and back solidly on both legs, able to laugh again. He would not talk about the militia or his lost companions and no one pressed him about it these days, glad only that the haunted expression had faded with the hard work needed to get Tolby’s new enterprises whipped into shape.

On second thought . . . Grace turned to look back over her shoulder. “I think,” she offered quietly, “that we should stand him at the doorway, to model some of those new men’s outfits you’ve designed, Nutmeg. The women will be drawn like gnats to honey.”

Nutmeg tilted her head and squinted at Hosmer. “Maaaaaybe,” she drawled. “He does cut a fine figure.”

Hosmer gave a rumbling chuckle. “Hard work I’ll do. Standin’ round like a strutting billy goat or rooster, no. Show me what you need hauled back here, so we can head home. I’ve been workin’ hard, and I’m hungry.”

The two led him to the back door pile, where carters dropped their barrels and bundles. He hefted two kegs, one on each shoulder. “No way to get the lads to haul them in for you?”

“We are lucky,” Nutmeg muttered, “to get them inside the door. Carters around here just kick their deliveries off the tailgate and hope it lands somewhere close to your shop.”

“Can you be using your wiles on them?”

“I’ve tried. Rivergrace is oblivious to it.”

“Grace?” He swung about to face her, with another bale on each shoulder, pausing as he settled them into place.

“Me? Like they’d look at me. I’m like a winter yearling at the first of spring, all shaggy and long-legged and gawky. It’s Nutmeg their jaws drop at, anyway.”

Hosmer clucked at her. “I see we need to get Da to give you his famous talk.”

Nutmeg pinked. “Gah, not that one!”

She stared at both of them. “Talk?”

“Aye, sis. The one about men and women and attraction and such not. He’s good at it.” Hosmer grinned as he bypassed her, one of the bales slowly coming undone as he carried it by, and she followed quickly to gather up its tying rope so that he would not trip on it. A small, folded piece of paper drifted down as well. She picked it up and slipped it into her pocket, hurrying to gather up the bale before the fine fabrics tumbled from its oilcloth covering. He set both into place where she pointed, the two of them barely out of the way as Nutmeg came puffing up with more freight in her arms, more than she could handle explode that in all directions as they scrambled to catch it. The shelf and all came tumbling down as bales, kegs, sturdy Dwellers, and off-balance Rivergrace crashed into them.

“Keldan built that shelf!” Hosmer sputtered from underneath the pile of goods as he plowed himself free. Nutmeg’s petticoats were all that could be seen of her as Rivergrace rolled out from underneath. The hope to be gone from the shop before the last of the sunset had faded from the sky fled, as they cleared the goods and scurried around to find tools and nails for Hosmer so that he could put the shelf back “Properly,” as he stated it firmly, and then restock it.

Finally Nutmeg patted the last package into place, retying the bale. “Oooh, her fabric is in,” she said to Grace. “Milady Galraya has been looking for this one, so we can make her outfits, and in a hurry, too. She wanted to inspect it first.”

“Send Walther out on a run tomorrow morning, then. That’ll please him.”

“So I shall.” Nutmeg dusted herself off, and regathered her tresses, tying them back from her face and off her neck, to cool down a bit. “Race you back.”

“See here.” Hosmer grabbed her by the scruff of her neck. “This is no orchard. The streets are busy out there, and there’s drinkers and cutpurses and such. You two stay with me as Da intended.” He frowned, which made him look tolerably fierce if one ignored the dirt streak down his nose. His tunic hung loosely on him, but his injury had taken the fat and not the muscle off him. He wore his short sword sheathed and tied on his hip, as the city allowed, not easily drawn but still available if necessary.