The Dark Ferryman (25 page)

“But you do, and it proves you are healing, and you are still a man.” And she kissed him then, as hot and desperately as he had kissed her, and he stopped arguing with her.

BREGAN FOUND HIS father still at his estates though it was well after the breakfasting hour. He was neither surprised nor delighted to do so, but had accepted the likelihood. In the same trend, he did not seem to overly interested in haste about turning over his empire to Bregan. It had not failed to occur to Bregan that he might have to succeed in the way that not failed to occur to Bregan that he might have to succeed in the way that Willard did from his sire, Ruman Oxfort, in a hostile takeover.

He was five days late in arriving for their appointment and knew that their meeting would be even more difficult than usual. He swung down from his horse, feeling the leg brace take the weight of his leg easily as he did so, pondering whether takeovers were a family tradition or simply a way of proving that one was, indeed, old enough and strong enough to be the successor. It didn’t seem the sort of thing he could discuss with his father. Not if he wished to have any legs at all left to stand upon.

A stable lad ran out to take care of his horse as soon as he stood free. Her freckled face beamed as she stroked the creature’s neck and led him off. She wore trousers like the other lads, and he was not sure how his father had managed to be so equitable in his hiring. Perhaps he hadn’t even noticed the new lad was a female. He stripped his gloves off, slapping them against his trousers before tucking them away. He did not relish this meeting.

Willard heard his steps upon the tiled flooring as soon as he entered, and recognized the cadence from the normal stride and the braced one, movement that he couldn’t disguise even if he tried. His voice boomed through the wing of the estate. “Bregan! Is that you?”

“And no one else, Father.”

“High time! High time indeed. It’s been five days since I sent you to Temple Row. Come here and explain.”

He followed the thunderous voice into his father’s study. Books and scrolls were thrown everywhere, the window shutters stood wide open to the gray fog of the day, and a smell of toback lingered in the air. His father sat, feet up, vest unbuttoned and his dark eyes sparkling sharp, like those of a rapacious bird looking for scraps. His boots lay next to the ottoman, and his stockings looked as though he’d been walking around in them all morning, a damp leaf pressed to the bottom of his right foot.

Bregan looked about for a place to sit, found a chair under a small mountain of scrolls, and then decided to sit on the edge of his father’s desk, the cleanest spot available. “Temple Row,” he began, but Willard Oxfort launched into a speech of his own.

“A revelatory mess that is. Gods listening, readying to talk to us! Bah. Too late now to head that off at the pass, so we’ll simply have to deal with it. Make arrangements to meet with the leading clergy in the towns and villages, bribe them off. I’ll have a small surtax placed on the goods to offset the costs, but it’s going to hit us in our purses. Better now than later, though. This kind of thing can be quite difficult to deal with, especially with the Galdarkans and Vaelinars rattling their sabers. The people will be looking for fear and miracles, don’t you think? Well-placed bribes all around should take the wind out of their sails, although there will be a dirt preacher or two who won’t listen. The Kobrir will have to deal with them.” Willard took a deep breath and Bregan took the plunge.

“Not necessary, I’ve dealt with it.”

“You’ll have to—what? What do you mean?”

“I’ve been busy these past few days.”

“Too busy to come speak with me, that I know. Busy at what?”

Bregan tapped his hand to his ear. “It’s a godsend, a bloody gold mine, Father. I’ve got contracts with potters along our routes, the wheels spinning and the ovens fired up. We’re going to be the leading suppliers of relics. Listening niches, small idols, offering bowls and basins, you name it, whatever might please the Gods in whatever small way, we’re going to sell it to them. Don’t head this off, embrace it!”

“Embrace it? What in tree’s blood are you talking about?”

“This trend comes up every few decades. The people hunger to be heard, to be spoken to, as they were centuries ago. Having had it once, they want it back again.”

Willard chopped at the air with his hand. “The Gods cut us off. You can’t gamble good capital on their capricious whims.”

“I’m not gambling on them, Father, I’m gambling on the people. We’ve made money off their whims since time began.”

Willard narrowed his gaze. “And when the Gods fail to speak?”

“Put the blame where the blame lies, then. The Gods alone are responsible for their conduct. We will have done everything possible to court their attention. We will have been sanctimonious and flattering and eager and respectful.” Bregan spread his hands. “What more can they ask of us? We will have given it our all, and you must never forget, Father, that the Gods act in their own time. What passes as a year or even a decade to us might only be a breath in their world. We shall also sell
patience
.”

Willard sat back in his chair, dropping his feet from his settee to the floor, and his sharp gaze mellowed a bit as he thought. Bregan leaned forward from his perch. Willard’s fingers moved, and he knew his father was counting subconsciously.

Their eyes met again. Willard said quietly, “There could be money in this.”

“Fountains of it. And, for a time at least, unnoticed by the Vaelinars and anyone else of note. I can funnel it away as I please.”

“To what end?”

“I’ll be hiring more caravan guards. Vastly more.”

“And . . .”

“We’ll have our own army, Father. An army that will stand when the Vaelinars and Galdarkans have cut each other to bloody ribbons. An army that will stand forth to protect our trade routes and Ways as well as our people as needed.”

Willard grunted. “You may have to. We can’t trust Quendius.”

“I was meant to be a dead man.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps he had indeed arranged a treaty of sorts with them, and you were sent in good faith by him. Either way, you would have suited his purpose. You alive, with trade goods to seal the bargain, or you dead, to whet their appetite for conquering these lands.”

Bregan looked at his father. The man had an exterior that showed nothing, ever, unless he willed it, and the look on his father’s face now held no more awareness of anything other than the simple act of having finished putting his boots on. “If it is the Raymy . . .”

“All the more reason for the Gods to lean close once again. It will be seen as one of the signs of their returning to us, if we play it right.”

“If not . . .”

“There will be panic in the streets, and the coast will be stripped. I suggest we secure warehouses inland, well fortified and stocked. Food as well as religious relics will become our mainstay. Do it quietly, though, no sense tipping our hand.”

“Buying grain stores will alert attention.”

“I trust you can handle it.” Willard surged to his feet. “Can’t you?”

Bregan slid off the desk. “Of course.”

“Good, then. I’ve meetings to attend, and I’ll keep my ear out for stir-rings, as well. You’ve enough coin for these investments?”

“I do.”

“All right, then. Spend your seed money, and I’ll reimburse you off the books.”

“So, if anyone notices, they will think your trader son has taken the bit in his teeth and gone bolting his own way.”

“Unsanctioned trading and investing, yes. If they think I back you, they will either give us competition we do not want, or they will trip the panic before we’re ready. Either way will cost us money.”

And all the risk would be his. But not quite. He would only be risking coin. Those who stayed unaware of the fact the Raymy might be massing again would have their lives at stake.

Willard waved him out the office door. “Distasteful as you find it, I want to be kept apprised of everything and it will be best to do it in person.”

“Done, then.”

“Good. Have the staff fix you a breakfast before you leave.” And with that, his father dismissed him as he picked up his coat and cane and prepared to leave his estate for a day or week in the city proper at the guildhall offices. Bregan watched him go, turned, and eyed the interior of his father’s study. Would it be worth going through the books and scrolls to see what mission of knowledge had prompted the chaos?

Time, it seemed, might be of the essence. He had places to be and deals to put in place.

Bregan headed for the doors, only a breath or two behind his father.

TIIVA ROSE FROM HER WRITING DESK in a swirl of color and fabric, her gown one that Quendius might have seen before but could not remember if he had, nor even cared particularly, except that he wondered where her seemingly inexhaustible supply came from. A bemused expression played over her face as she put aside her pen and capped her inkwell before turning to face him fully. Sconces on the wall burned fitfully to augment scant light from an overcast day, giving her copper skin a glow. She was, he supposed, a beautiful woman although he did not particularly find her so even though Abayan Diort had, which was why Quendius kept her. Experience had shown him it paid to know what others valued. She moved with a surety and confidence that amused him as she tilted her chin to meet his gaze.

“Been hunting?”

He held the bow in his off-hand, the quiver with four arrows in it across his back. “Not yet,” he answered. “Perhaps in a short while.”

“Are the maps I sent you pleasing?”

“They are most complete, as far as I know.”

She pushed one hand into a pocket in her skirt which rustled as she did so. “I have hidden nothing from you.”

“What do you know of the borders?”

Tiiva pursed her curved mouth in thought a moment. “Only that mountain passes are a natural gate. There are two, one to the west and one to the southwesterly side. Larandaril can also be approached over the mountains from the east, but the passage is difficult and not easily accomplished. Nor would it be secret. The border is well-watched, and the slightest breach of it is sensed almost immediately.”

He had a small parchment in his quiver, and pulled it to spread out over her writing desk, a compact and well-done map of Queen Lariel’s domain. “Here, then, and here?” He traced the mountains passes with familiarity.

“Yes. Do you have doubts now about getting as far as the estates?”

Quendius gave a sharp shake of his head. “No doubts. I simply wanted to know whatever it is you know.”

She watched him trace his hand over the map. “It would be presumptuous, ” she told him, “with my span of years akin to yours, for me to relate everything I know to you so easily. But what I know of the entrances and exits to the manor now rests at your disposal.” Tiiva paused. “Has there been any word from my cousin Galraya on a ransom?”

“Your cousin sent word that you are sorely missed from the family but that your duties have been taken up by another.”

“I see.” She watched him reroll the map with a few snaps of his wrists.

“There appears to be no love lost between your kin.”

“There are casualties in any endeavor.” She took a slight step backward.

He replaced the map in his quiver and drew out an arrow. He wondered if she could hear the faint, Demon thrum in it that he heard when he touched it. The polished wood shone in his grasp, the grain of the aryn tree plainly visible in its striated beauty. The jewel shard glittered, its cruel edge sparkling. It gave him pleasure to hold the weapon. “We are at war.”

“You and I?”

“Do you think I might ascertain that?”

“I think, Quendius, that your intelligence far supersedes mine and you know far more of the world than I.”

“Now you seek to flatter me.” He turned the arrow in his fingers, admiring the fletching. “I ask myself why you seek refuge here, rather than at Diort’s side.”

“A question you did not ask at the time you took me in.” Her hands sought, and found, the back of her chair as if she might lean upon it. Or grasp it to use. A shield? A weapon? Her face maintained a slight smile on an otherwise neutral expression. She had Vaelinar eyes, however, and he’d learned long ago he could never trust Vaelinar eyes. He carried them himself, with not a hint whatsoever of the power they promised. Whatever power he had, he’d gotten through work and planning and the sweat of his brow and the blood of his enemies, not by some insubstantial current of magic running through the fabric of the world. What ran through the world was life and death, and he knew both of them intimately. He did not trust anything handed to him, as Tiiva had done with herself.

“Power attracts power,” Tiiva offered.

“Abayan Diort looks to become a Galdarkan emperor.”

“Perhaps. But what does he rule? Tribes who live in mud villages and goat tents, and pitch their homes at the edge of Mageborn chaos where nothing thrives. Anyone can become king of nothing.”

He noticed her hands grasping the back of the chair had gone white around the knuckles. “Why join forces with him at all, then?”

“I thought he had potential.” Tiiva’s mouth twisted wryly about the words.

“And now he does not, but I do.”

She shook her head, hair of spun red-gold shimmering around her shoulders. “You are like playing with fire, to a child who has no concept of the vastness of the element. It consumes, it preserves. It has dimensions for use that a child cannot possibly grasp nor hope to tame. You are beyond my knowing.”

He was meant to admire her candor, but it meant nothing to him. “Did you hope to know me?”

“In some small way, yes. I would hesitate to ally with someone I had absolutely no understanding of, and I cannot provide value for you without knowing what you wish.”