Iron and Blood (3 page)

Carlo elbowed Tyvian in the ribs. “Stop staring at her.”

“The hell I will,” Tyvian breathed. “She's
incredible
.”

“She can have us tortured and
killed
with a flick of her eyelash,” Carlo hissed in his ear.

Tyvian cocked an eyebrow. “What kind of torture, do you suppose?”

The slaves set the Hanim's throne down, and somewhere in the garden a heavy staff was slammed against the floor. A voice yelled, “All kneel before Her Immortal Grace, Angharad tin'Theliara Hanim!”

The Kalsaaris fell on their faces instantly, the Westerners bowed and curtsied deeply, but Tyvian did not budge. The Hanim's golden gaze fixed on him immediately. “You do not kneel?” she said coolly, her eyelids drooping as though bored.

He shrugged and sighed. “Sorry, but I'm afraid I don't do that.”

“You are a guest in the Hanim's home!” Fariq appeared from behind a pillar, his face red and beard twitching. “You insult her!”

Tyvian shook his head. “I assure you, Fooka, no insult is intended, but I would also hasten to add that I am not a guest.”

“I am
Fariq
!” The slavemaster stomped his foot.

“If you are not a guest, then what are you?” the Hanim asked, her face impassive.

“A gift, it seems. Accept me with the compliments of Carlo diCarlo.” Tyvian made a short bow that was more head-­nod than anything else.

The Hanim's strange eyes bored into Tyvian's for a long moment, but he did not look away. Finally, he thought he saw the barest hint of a smile playing around the edges of her mouth. “Slaves, take this gift to my suite, where I will inspect it later.”

Two mark-­slaves grabbed Tyvian by the elbows and shoulders and dragged him off. They were not gentle.

“You may rise.” The Hanim clapped her hands. “Let the party continue.”

 

T
he mark-­slaves heaved Tyvian headlong onto a pile of silk cushions. The irislike portal through which he had been tossed swiveled closed with a grinding metallic sound, and then there was silence.

Digging his way out of the pillow-­pile, Tyvian checked his person for any permanent damage. Aside from a few bruises he would be feeling for the next several days and a ­couple tears in his clothing that would need the attention of a good tailor, he was unharmed. He also noted that they had not found nor relieved him of the dagger in his boot. He doubted it would be necessary or even effective in securing his goals that evening, but still, it never hurt to be prepared.

The room in which he found himself was beyond even his expectations. Occupying the whole top floor of one of the Theliara compound's many minarets, Astral enchantments had been used to more than double the available space inside the circular room, including a broad terrace with arching windows showing panoramic views of the city around him. These windows, Tyvian noted, opened onto a long stone balcony that ran around the circumference of the room. Within the luxurious room there was a titanic bath carved from black granite that bubbled with hot water, a bed of such proportions that it could sleep ten ­people, and its own slave, who stood quietly next to the one entrance.

Tyvian got up and straightened his clothing. “I say, my good fellow, would it be possible for me to get a glass of wine?”

The slave produced a glass of wine from behind his back, already poured and on a tray. Even Tyvian, accustomed as he was to magical amenities, was taken aback. “Were you
expecting
me to ask for red wine?”

The slave bowed his head low. “Your wine, saab.”

Tyvian took the glass from the tray. “On second thought, I'd rather have white—­chilled, please.”

The slave put the tray behind him and brought it back, this time with a glass of white wine. Tyvian took it and noted that it was cool to the touch. “Great gods, that's incredible! How do you do that?”

The slave bowed low again but did not answer.

Tyvian shrugged. “Of course you don't know—­silly of me to ask. So, what's your name?”

“I am Walid.”

“Worked here long?”

“Since my birth, saab.”

“Does the Hanim treat her slaves well?”

Walid bowed low. “She is our star in the heavens.”

Tyvian snorted. “That does not answer the question, you know. Never mind, no need to get you in trouble.”

Tyvian knew he would be there awhile. The Hanim would spend at least some time among her guests, accepting their birthday wishes and gifts. Even if the unexpected presence of Hendrieux and his cronies was enough to cut her public appearance short, he figured he had at least an hour. He spent it asking Walid to acquire for him various objects from thin air, most of which he discarded when he tired of them—­a leg of lamb, a tennis racket, a live chicken, a diamond-­studded bracelet, chocolates, and so on—­until there was a pile of junk three feet high and he had eaten his fill of every delicacy he could think of. Then he arranged the most comfortable cushions in the room in front of the self-­lighting firepit and reclined on them, noting for the first time the skylights in the ceiling. The fatigue of the past few weeks caught up to him at once, and he dozed off.

When he dreamed, the images were discordant and nonsensical. The only face he could make out was of that hairy Northron oaf, Eddereon—­the man who had cursed him with the ring. The bearded mountain man spoke to him in a language he didn't understand. Tyvian threw eggs at him until he went away, and he laughed.
I'll show you!

He awoke suddenly. He was looking up into the golden eyes of the Hanim, his head on her lap, her long fingernails running through his hair. He stiffened, and she smiled, her teeth gleaming in the firelight. “Well, it seems my present is finally awake.”

Tyvian consciously attempted to relax. The Hanim smelled of lavender, and her touch on his scalp was enough to make any man squirm, but he forced himself to take a deep breath. “I hope there has been no misunderstanding, my lady—­I am not your slave.”

“Bosh.” She smirked. “A few simple enchantments and you wouldn't even remember your name.”

“Ah, yes, but then I also wouldn't remember the business transaction I came here to conduct.”

The Hanim ran a fingernail across Tyvian's forehead and down his nose. Suddenly, she vanished from beneath him, and Tyvian fell back onto the cushion where she had been sitting. He leapt onto his feet, saw her standing across the room, Walid at her side, and looked back to where she had been.
Had she
really
been there at all?

The Hanim chuckled softly, clearly amused. “That is right—­illusion, Mr. Reldamar. A demonstration of my power, if you will, so you will know—­or
not
know, if you follow my meaning—­what you are dealing with if you seek to swindle me.” The Hanim's face dropped the smile and gazed at him with deadly seriousness.

Tyvian smiled. “Fortunately, I have neither the desire nor motivation to do so, milady. I simply wish to make a trade.”

“You have a staff in your possession.”

“If by ‘staff' you mean the colloquial term for mage, then yes, I have. What's more, she is a Mage Defender.”

“Such a woman is worth a lot of gold, Mr. Reldamar, but not just to me. You could have easily sold her to some pretty criminal organization. Why go to all the trouble?”

It was Tyvian's turn to be deadly serious. “Because I am not interested in gold. I want a favor.”

The Hanim grinned. “The Verisi, diCarlo, seems to think it is money.”

“As I said, milady, I am not swindling
you
.”

“Favors can be more expensive than money. You might do better to behave as your friend thinks you ought to.”

“With respect, Hanim, I don't
need
money.”

“What is your favor, then?” She fished a sardine from a tray Walid had produced and ate it with a single rapid bite. Tyvian tried not to stare at her lips.

Having gotten to his feet, he came closer, stopping little more than an arm's length from the Kalsaari noblewoman. “I need to meet with an Artificer.”

She smirked. “The Artificers do not meet with Westerners, and certainly not with thieves of rare magical goods such as yourself.”

Tyvian returned the smirk. “I saw a pair of them meeting with my former partner this very evening.”

The Hanim's eyes narrowed. “Call me a liar and I'll have your tongue.”

“I am merely ilLumenating Your Grace to unforeseen possibilities. Artificers, it seems,
may
meet with Westerners, if the price is right.”

“What do I offer them?”

Tyvian held up his right hand.
“This.”

The Hanim's gaze snapped to the Iron Ring immediately. She leaned in closer, blinking. “What is it?”

Why don't you tell me?
Tyvian wanted to ask, but held his tongue. The Hanim clearly recognized the ring but didn't wish to let on. That was fine by him. He cleared his throat. “An inconvenient artifact I need removed, and will not trust to any bumbling Freegate talismancer. It is quite sophisticated, I assure you.”

The Hanim reached out and took Tyvian's hand, pulling it closer to her and turning it over. Walid dangled a piece of illumite over her for additional light. “Have you tried antispell?” she asked.

“Not without knowing what will happen. It is bound to my hand, and I don't want it stuck there.”

“You could simply cut the finger off,” the Hanim said, running her fingers over the smooth edges of the ring.

Tyvian grimaced. “I happen to like that finger.”

She smiled at him. “Yet you risk your entire body by meeting with me.”

“If I am dead, I don't need fingers. While living, I would prefer to keep all of them. Can you do what I ask?”

The Hanim pulled Tyvian closer by his hand, until his knuckles rested against her chest. Her fingers stroked his forearm in a way Tyvian thought beyond the bounds of professional decorum. “What does it do, this ring? Why do you hate it so much?”

He met the golden gaze of the Kalsaari noblewoman and did his best to act as though his body was molested by dangerous enchantresses on a regular basis and found the whole affair quite boring. “Did I say I hated it, milady?”

“I can see it in your eyes. When you speak of it, your hatred flares up like fuel thrown on a distant fire. Why?”

Tyvian permitted himself to smirk. “Perhaps I'll tell you, but I only trade secrets for secrets.”

The Hanim released his hand. “What do you want to know?”

“You do not, by any chance, have a professional relationship with Banric Sahand, have you?”

The Hanim sighed dramatically, as though she were on a stage and wanted the back rows to hear her. “A slight one. Sahand was once an ally of my family—­during the wars—­but not since then. At the moment, his vassals have expressed an interest in purchasing animals from my menagerie—­the wilder and more frightening, the better. I do not know why.”

Tyvian nodded. “Logical enough.” To himself, he added,
Even though you're obviously lying.

“And now your turn for secrets. What does the ring do?”

“I'd rather not say,” Tyvian said.

The Hanim hissed like a cat. “Perfidious wretch! Is this how you do business?”

“Come now, milady, do you really think I am so stupid as to fall for the whole ‘information trade' nonsense. It's among the oldest swindles in the book. What you told me was at least half a lie, and you would never believe what I told you either. Let's at least be frank with one another, shall we?”

The Hanim assumed a stately posture. “We will consider your offer and contact you tomorrow should it be possible.”

Tyvian nodded. “I look forward to seeing you again, Hanim.”

She snorted softly. “Still you do not bow.”

“Don't take it personally,” he said. “I've spent my life snubbing those with power, no matter how beautiful they are.”

“Walid,” the Hanim said, “put him out.”

Walid clapped his hands and the floor fell away from beneath Tyvian's feet. He fell through the dark, cursing Kalsaari sorcery the whole way down, until the abyss through which he fell became a flume full of foul-­smelling water and trash. It wound and dipped through some dark system of tunnels and at last ejected him with a whoosh into a gutter. He landed flat on his back, knocking the wind out of him and covering him with freezing muck.

Pulling himself out of the stink and grime, Tyvian wheezed until his lungs remembered how to breathe air, then spent several moments cursing the Hanim. “The wretched witch could have
at least
tossed me out a side door.”

His clothes were a complete loss. Even if he had them magically cleaned, they would never quite be the same. He tossed his jacket in the gutter and used his scarf to wipe off the larger patches of refuse and slime from his breeches and shirt. For all his aggravation, however, he had to admit that the loss of a suit of clothes was a small price to pay for the deal he had secured.

Tyvian had complete confidence that the Hanim would accept his offer, because he knew that what he'd suggested was of immeasurable worth to Theliara and the Kalsaari Empire as a whole. A Mage Defender like Myreon was a walking secret weapon, trained in doctrines and disciplines the Kalsaaris would kill to know. For ages the Arcanostrum of Saldor had trained the world's finest magi, bar none, and the Kalsaaris knew it. But the presence of sorcery among the nobles in Kalsaar spoke less to their talent than to their tolerance of it. The overuse of magical power was still somewhat taboo in the nations of the West, and all magi were trained to use only the barest fraction of their power in any given situation. In those rare instances when they did use the sum total of their arts to tackle a problem, the very fabric of the earth shook. Tyvian knew this better than most: his mother, Lyrelle Reldamar, was one of the most powerful sorcerers alive, and when she worked a spell, the world trembled.

Myreon Alafarr was, of course, not anything close to Lyrelle. Tyvian knew that, Myreon knew that, but the Kalsaaris likely did not. Their magic was focused upon invocation—­the most ephemeral discipline of sorcery, which created effects and simulations that lacked real substance. Myreon's skill in augury, enchantment, and transmutation would no doubt thrill them. Indeed, what enchantment, transmutation, and even conjuration the Kalsaaris had devised were all based on the confessions and interrogations of Western magi they had captured or who had defected to them over the years.

The exceptions to all of this were the Artificers. A secretive monastic order that devoted itself to a mixture of the Low and High Arts, they were the creators of magical artifacts beyond compare. It was said that their skill exceeded even those of the magi of the Arcanostrum or the Builders of Eretheria. Tyvian knew that if he could get them to take a look at the ring, not only could they likely remove it, but there was also a distinct chance they could tell him where and how it was made.

Of course, his deal with the Hanim would not put him
directly
closer to meeting with an Artificer. For as much as Tyvian thought the Hanim would accept his deal, he was twice as confident that she would double-­cross him at her first opportunity. Not only was deception part of her nature, but he had gone out of his way to insult her pride this evening, and he knew she couldn't accept that without getting some kind of satisfaction for that injury at his expense. Betrayal seemed the easiest, most straightforward option.

The deal with the Hanim was one facet of a plot that, if it worked, would serve to relieve him of the ring, attain his vengeance on Hendrieux, fulfill his “deal” with Hool the gnoll and get the Defenders off of his back for a long, long time. His plot had been growing in complexity with every passing day, but with Hendrieux's fortuitous appearance at the party this evening, things just got a little bit simpler. Of course, he had to hurry.