The Great Rift (41 page)

"They're creepy," Blays said. "If the rest of the world dropped dead, their only complaint would be the stink."

"Wait, you actually
met
them?"

Dante rolled his eyes. "And gained nothing from it. What about here? Has anyone's mind budged an inch?"

Lolligan's tanned brow wrinkled. "Been a lot of talk. Even by the standards of people who do nothing but talk."

"Good talk?"

"Not by your standards." Lolligan glanced from his doorway, as if expecting to spot men in black masks lurking in the bushes. "I get the idea the Association isn't as unified as Jocubs wants you to think."

Dante locked eyes with the mustached man. "What gives you that idea?"

"The king's treaty proved that if they want to move against it, they need to do it now. Yet they haven't. I think there are some war-hawks in the TAGVOG, and their strategy is to do nothing but stall until there's nothing that can be done."

"Then we'll have to force the issue," Dante said. "Do you have any paper? I think it's time to send Jocubs a letter."

Blays gasped. "Are you sure you want to be that bold? What will people
say
?"

Inside, Dante penned a brief letter in his finest hand, blotted the ink, and sealed it with a dab of black wax. Lolligan's boatman rowed away to Jocubs' isle. He returned in less than an hour with a letter of his own. An invitation to another dinner two days later.

Dante sent out his clothes to be washed. Went into town for a haircut and shave. Had his boots resoled and relaced. He spent the remaining time hanging around tea houses in the fancier districts, trolling for gossip and insight. The former was torrential; the latter, a dribble. One rumor stated that Jocubs would marry his first daughter and the fortune that came with her to Moddegan's second son if only the king revoked the treaty in favor of peace. Simultaneously, another claimed Jocubs would raise the army himself if Moddegan
didn't
lead his country to battle. Others claimed Moddegan was coming to town in person to rally support for his cause. The one thing they all agreed on was that the future looked uncertain, and that uncertainty was bad for anyone currently doing well.

The night and morning before the dinner, Dante sequestered himself in his room at Lolligan's, drafting speeches to hit this point home. By definition, every one of the merchants at the event would be a successful man or woman. A few of them might secretly hope to benefit from the upheaval. Most, however, would suffer. A few might lose it all. Wars were costly things. If Moddegan's silver started to dwindle, no one knew who he might turn to for aid—and what threats he'd make to ensure he got it.

Dante finished with hours to spare. He spent them bathing away the salt and grime of the trail. At the pier, he was surprised to see Blays had done the same. Their boat pushed off, Jocubs-bound. At the chairman's island, rowboats and sailboats clustered around the docks, which creaked with men and women in bright skirts and fur coats. They milled into the banquet hall, where servants stood ready with platters and crystal glasses.

Jocubs' avuncular laughter rolled across the room. Dante could barely see him behind the swarm of men and women vying for his word. Dante slid along the picture windows, maneuvering closer, accepting a servant's offer of wine and a pastry smeared with farmer's cheese and baked trout. He recognized many of the men and women from the prior event, and he smiled and chatted with them while he waited for a break in Jocubs' admirers. The room smelled of tea and woodsmoke and charred pepper-pike.

Dante caught his break an hour later. Beside Jocubs, a merchant's young wife tipped back her head, laughing without reserve, her cleavage soaring. Heads turned. Dante wedged himself next to Jocubs, whose winglike eyebrows were raised in amusement. Seeing Dante, he smiled warmly.

"I'm glad to see you made it back from the west with no loss of limbs or sanity."

Dante smiled back. "There was nothing there but grass and cliffs. The only risk was being winded to death."

"Ah, is it windy there? It's been unseasonably warm here. Good seasons ahead, I think." Jocubs scuffed his feet left, right, left, smiling apologetically at his own superstition.

"And how did the time treat Gallador? Does this dinner mean you've reached a decision?"

Jocubs turned to the window, smiling at some distant peak. "After we eat, good man. We wouldn't want to put anyone off their meal."

Dante found himself subtly replaced by a whip-thin man with a triangular mustache and a hungry eye. He let himself be pried away, and was soon engaged by a man he'd met at the last quorum, the youngish one with the widow's peak and knowing smile, who reintroduced himself as Ewell.

"Ever figure out the cost?" Ewell said.

Dante cocked his head. "The cost?"

"Of striking this bargain."

"Besides precious days of my life?" Dante gazed at the burbling crowd. "I think they're still figuring the price out for themselves."

"How strange," Ewell said. "You don't tease a hungry fish. You just drop your hook."

"Have you heard—?" Dante's breath left him in a groaning whoosh as Blays drove his elbow into his side. In the same instant, the crowd went silent as a fog. Several glanced Dante's way with looks as if he'd farted in their soup.

"We're ruined," Blays hissed. "They've played us from the start."

Dante rubbed his ribs. "What are you yammering about?"

"Stand up on those delicate little toes of yours and look."

All the room's attention had turned to a door in the far wall. Dante craned his neck, but couldn't see past the well-fed wall of traders. He shuffled to one side until he found a gap in the quiet crowd. Across the room, a young man with a striking jaw and severely cropped blond hair strolled up to a smiling Jocubs. As if sensing Dante's gaze, Cassinder turned, met his eyes, and smiled.

Fear and fury fought for Dante's heart. Jocubs cleared his throat in a way that was somehow humble yet piercing. The mounting murmur stopped cold.

"Today, we are graced by a man whose name speaks itself," Jocubs said. "We are happy to have him. Honored, too. I introduce Lord Cassinder of Beckonridge."

Cassinder smiled thinly at the floor. "I'm happy to be here. It means good things to know I am welcome. I thought that might not be so." He paused, still smiling. Someone coughed. A glass clinked. Cassinder went on as if there'd been no stop at all. "Turmoil is frightening. I wouldn't have blamed you for questioning the king. But wealth depends on labor. Labor depends on loyalty. You prune an unruly hedge for its own health. This takes work. Sweat. Blood, if there are thorns. But when you are done, the hedge grows back. It takes the shape you have imposed on it." He looked up, smile stretched to the breaking point. "I am glad to garden together."

Light applause accompanied the nodding heads of the crowd. Dante bulled his way forward, shouldering tea-lords and their stately wives until he stood face to face with Jocubs. The merchant buried his smile and nodded discreetly to the door. Dante followed him out to his enclosed deck. Sunlight bounced from the lake, shimmering on the walls. The room was warm and smelled of drying mussels.

"I'm sorry," Jocubs said simply. "Things happened very fast."

"'Things'?" Dante said. "Is that how you pronounce 'betrayal' in Wending?"

Jocubs gazed down on Dante from beneath the lintels of his brows. "This isn't personal. This is a matter of pragmatism."

"It's going to be pretty gods damned personal to all the norren who die!"

"Do you think we gave that no thought? We gleaned the palace intended to enforce the king's will through any means necessary. We used what leverage we could to convince them to take the targeted approach. A barber's knife instead of a farmer's scythe."

Dante closed his eyes. His head hummed. "Everything could have been different."

Jocubs laid a warm hand on his shoulder. "I'm truly sorry. We're all doing what we can."

Dante pulled away and headed through the muffled hallway to get Blays. The banquet hall was a screeching riot of laughter and wheedling and clawing hands. He struggled through the hot crush of people and found Blays watching the room from one of the walls.

He grabbed Blays' sleeve. "We're leaving."

"Sure you don't want to leave our noble friend with a tap to the jaw? You never know. He might like it."

"Only if we follow it up with a stab to the neck."

"Hello," Cassinder said behind them. Dante spun. The lord smiled his thin smile. "You've changed shape since I saw you. Weren't you a Mallish merchant before?"

"We upgraded," Blays said. "How's the home?"

"Rebuilding quickly. Norren backs are strong. Untiring."

Dante jerked his chin to the milling merchants. "How long have you been involved in this?"

Cassinder gave him a glassy look. "Since always. Money makes men forget themselves. My place is to to remind them of theirs."

Dante leaned in until their faces were inches apart. Cassinder's breath smelled of mint and wine. "Funny. I sometimes remind people it is everyone's place to die."

The man laughed softly. "I could have you arrested right now."

"Go for it," Blays said. "If I'm going to the irons, I might as well kill you now and get my money's worth."

"Not while there's better to come," Cassinder said. "I believe in choice. I believe you will choose foolishly. I will laugh when you're hanged."

Dante turned away before his clenching hands found the man's throat. As he knifed through the throng, he found a note in his hand, as if it had always been there. He glanced from side to side. Men laughed in each other's faces. Blays shoved his back, propelling him forward. Dante clutched the note and stuffed his hand into his pocket. Blays didn't stop pushing him until they dropped down the front steps on their way to the docks.

Dante scowled against the afternoon sunlight. "Will you quit shoving already?"

"You had that
other
look," Blays explained. "The one where happy people are about to become sad little cinders."

Dante had too much to say, so he unfolded the note instead. It was short as an oracle, composed of blocky capitals: "COHBEN INN. ROOFTOP. MIDNIGHT."

He handed it to Blays, who a few short years ago couldn't even read his native Mallish, but had picked up the Gaskan script as soon as he bothered to try.

"Someone gave me this on the way out," Dante said.

Blays smoothed the paper against his palm. "Well, we're doing this."

"What if it's a trap?"

"Then we reprimand whoever's trying to trap us."

Dante glanced at the boatmen patrolling the dock with buckets and mops. "It's just like Lolligan said. They were stringing us along while playing the capital on the other end."

"Very rude. Rudeness that should be punished."

"We'll see what our mysterious messenger has to say tonight. Beyond that, it may be time to head home."

Blays grinned ruefully. "This trip didn't go too well, did it?"

"We got the norren some food. No one can speak ill of food."

"Unless it's pickled."

They returned to Lolligan's. Dante gave a brief account to the others. Mourn's face darkened behind his beard. Lira nodded stoically.

Fann looked crestfallen. "These men speak too much, don't they? I am beginning to believe a man only talks at length when he doesn't want you to know what he really thinks."

"I had a bad feeling the last few days," Lolligan said. "I'm sorry it came to this."

Dante's anger had left him too hollowed out for anything to do anything besides take a nap. Blays left to scout out the Cohben Inn. Dante woke in darkness, as refreshed as if he'd had a good long cry. The servants had saved him some supper, whitefish and bamboo shoots in a thick gravy of mashed onions and chilies. The spice drove the last of his sleepiness away.

"Pretty typical inn," Blays reported. "Places to drink and places to sleep."

"How far?"

"Thirty minute walk from the landing. Figured we'd put Mourn and a bow on a roof across the street, Lira in the alley below. You know how I like to be able to run if things turn nasty."

Dante nodded, wiping his spice-dripping nose. "How's the neighborhood?"

"Horrible? Would that be the word? I wouldn't be surprised if the mattresses were stuffed with corpses."

"That's not very practical. You'd have to change them out every month at least."

Blays brushed crumbs from the table. "I think you're overestimating the quality of the service in this inn."

They borrowed plain dark clothing from Lolligan's servants and left a minute after eleven. The city docks were quiet, gentle waves lapping over the pebbles. Blays led them uphill through whitewashed rowhouses and tidily clipped parks. Soon the walls turned unpainted, weather-chapped; the green lawns disappeared in favor of raked stone and individual trees. A three-quarter moon lit snaking alleys and haphazard homes attached to and built on top of much older stone structures. The few windows that weren't shuttered were glassless holes opening on dim rooms. On the corners, men sat on chairs, exposed to the wind, swigging from leather flasks. A whole crew of sailors reeled past, singing a rhythmic song that was either about oars or penises. Torches fluttered from the more ambitious inns and pubs. Otherwise, the streets were dark as a closet.

The Cohben Inn's only identification was two sticks of bamboo crossed above its crooked doorway. Like everything in the neighborhood, it was wedged between two other unornamented structures, but it stood a floor taller than anything within several blocks.

"Not sure how much use Mourn's going to be as a sniper when he can't cover the roof," Dante said.

Blays shrugged. "We'll stand on our tiptoes. See if we can't convince whoever we're meeting to do the same."

He led them across the street into the kinking alley behind the buildings that faced the Cohben. Washlines webbed the space between the upper floors. Ramshackle decks jutted below shuttered windows. Pots clogged these platforms, sporting yellow sticks of withered plants. The walls were winter-warped wood, poorly chinked.