The Lord-Protector's Daughter (13 page)

She still had some misgivings about presenting her findings to her father, but to whom else could she turn? Jeraxylt knew nothing about figures and ledgers, and her Uncle Joramyl was either part of the diversion or unable to discern what was happening.

She knew she would not sleep well.

Mykella had hoped to be
in the Finance chambers before Kiedryn or Joramyl on Quinti morning, but she'd been so tired that she'd nearly slept through breakfast. As she had feared, her sleep had been anything but peaceful, with nightmares about struggling through a blinding blizzard of black snow, trying to reach…something. She'd awakened after that one, and settled herself, only to fall asleep and find herself in a second nightmare, one in which her father disregarded her figures and confined her to her chambers because her ledger had vanished, and none of the Seltyrs or High Factors dared to tell the truth.

Her stomach was roiling when she finally got up, washed, and struggled into her garments. She knew she couldn't face the day and what she had to do without something to eat. Everyone but Rachylana had already eaten and left when Mykella got to the breakfast room, and Rachylana immediately rose and departed without a word or even a glance at Mykella. Mykella could sense the smoldering anger. All because Mykella didn't like Berenyt's scheming and his using Rachylana?

By the time Mykella had eaten cold egg toast and gulped down lukewarm tea, then hurried to the Finance study, Kiedryn was already at his table-desk. Fortunately, as she had hoped, Joramyl was nowhere to be seen.

“Good morning, Kiedryn.”

“Good morning, Mistress Mykella.”

Mykella gathered the ledgers she needed, then wrapped the sight-shield around them, not that Kiedryn more than glanced in her direction as she paused by the door. “I need to get something. I'll be back in a while.” She almost said that she'd be back before long, but she realized she had no idea how long what she planned would take—and even if her father was available at the moment.

The chief clerk merely nodded as Mykella left.

With the concealed ledgers under her arm, Mykella walked past the main staircase and then along the corridor until she reached the front of the building, where she nodded to the two guards stationed beside the double doors. Neither said a word as she opened the door and stepped into the outer study.

“Mistress Mykella,” offered Chalmyr, the calm-faced man who had been her father's private scrivener and assistant ever since Mykella could recall. “How might I help you?”

“I need to see him. It's important, and it's about…it's not personal.”

Chalmyr nodded. “He'll have time after he finishes with Seltyr Porofyr. There's almost a glass before Arms-Commander Nephryt will be here. If you'd care to sit…” He gestured to the armchair across from and to the left of the writing desk he occupied.

“Thank you.” Mykella seated herself. The chair was positioned so that anyone opening the door and looking in would not immediately or easily see her, and that was fine with Mykella. Absently, when Chalmyr was not looking, she dropped the concealment shield around the ledgers.

She had to wait for nearly half a glass before the Seltyr departed—with scarcely a glance in Mykella's direction.

Chalmyr nodded at her.

Mykella stepped through the single door, closing it behind her, then sliding the bolt into place. The last thing she wanted was Joramyl arriving, unlikely as it might be.

“We wouldn't be interrupted, anyway, daughter.” Feranyt paused, then leaned forward from where he sat behind the wide black oak desk. “Since you're not asking me anything at meals, this must have something to do with finances.”

For a moment, Mykella stood there, studying her sire with her senses, more than with her eyes. His life-thread was almost the same as Jeraxylt's—golden brown—and for the first time she noticed that there was a knot of sorts in the thread, as if tiny threads from all over his body merged into that nexus that connected him to the life-thread.

“Perhaps we wouldn't be interrupted, sir,” replied Mykella after a pause, “but it's best that there's no chance of that.” She laid the ledgers on the corner of the Lord-Protector's desk. “Father…I've been worried about your accounts. Receipts have been going down, yet everyone has been saying that times are good. I couldn't track everything, but I did track the fall tariffs of the bargemasters and the High Factors…” She went on to explain how she had cross-checked by visiting most of those on the lists and how their sealed receipts uniformly showed greater payments than those shown as having been received. She used each ledger to point out the exact differences. “…and since we don't use tariff farmers the way they do in some places, the numbers should agree, but they don't. Someone has diverted or pocketed nearly a thousand golds this year—”

“You only know about two hundred for certain.”

“I can only prove two hundred at the moment. The ledgers suggest a thousand.”

“We can only go with proof, daughter.”

Why couldn't her father see? Why wouldn't he?

“Mykella…you've been diligent and thoughtful, and I appreciate what you've let me know. Corruption is always a problem, because there aren't enough golds to sate all men's appetites.” He looked at his daughter more closely. “You're exhausted. You have black circles under your eyes. You shouldn't have pushed yourself so hard.”

“Father…I don't see how this could have happened without Lord Joramyl knowing something about it.”

Feranyt laughed ironically. “Just how often does he even come into the Finance chambers? I suspect that you and Kiedryn do most of the work, after the entry clerks take in the papers and order the entries.”

Mykella
was
tired, if not for the reasons her father had suggested, and she had no real answer to his statement, not at that moment.

“Dear child…I am the Lord-Protector, and you'll have to trust me to handle it. It's not something that can be rushed.”

“You are the Lord-Protector, Father, and I am your daughter. But please don't think I'm overstating matters. It's not just a matter of two hundred golds. And two hundred golds are hardly insignificant.”

“Mykella, I understand your concerns for me, but if I rush and handle matters wrong, things will only be worse.” He paused. “I will look into it and do what is necessary.”

She could sense that, if she pressed her father, it would do no good, and he would only resist. “That's all I wanted, sir. Do you need the ledgers?”

“Not right now, but keep them safe.”

“I can do that.” Mykella straightened and stepped back. Within her father, she could feel a combination of worry and resignation, as well as doubt. The doubt bothered her, but more words would do nothing. Should she have tracked down more examples?

For better or worse, she had not.

“I'll see you at dinner.” Feranyt offered an affectionate smile.

For all his doubt, he was touched by her efforts.

She returned the smile, hard as it was to do. “At dinner.”

Kiedryn wasn't even in the
Finance study when Mykella returned and replaced the tariff ledger. When he stepped through the door some half a glass later, he nodded to her and said, “I had to go down and deal with the new accounts clerk. That's Wasdahl. Some of his entries aren't clear enough and could be misread.”

“That's not good,” Mykella agreed.

“One can never be too careful with accounts and entries.” Kiedryn settled himself behind the long table and opened a ledger. “Shenyl does an excellent job with the Southern Guard accounts, and Vyahm is almost as good with the transportation and highway accounts. Wasdahl needs to follow their example.”

For the rest of the day, Mykella forced herself to look into another area of the accounts—the tariffs collected on the wine and spirits from the vintners in the Vyanhills. The entries were all consistent, unlike those she'd seen with the shipping tariffs, but that only meant that the bookkeeping was better, not that the tariff revenues were necessarily correct.

Was she getting cynical about everyone?

She frowned, then shook her head. Was there any doubt about it?

The day dragged on, and Mykella slipped away a half glass early, then waited near the dining room…and waited, hoping to catch her father. She couldn't very well just barge into his study and ask what he had found out, but if she did encounter him—accidentally—he might reveal something.

Just after the soft bells announced dinner, Mykella caught sight of her father and Eranya stepping out of his private quarters and walking toward her. She waited.

Feranyt slowed as he neared his daughter.

Mykella merely raised her eyebrows.

The Lord-Protector shook his head. “I've done what I can do for now, and I'll let you know.” Feranyt's voice was calm and reasonable.

Despite the chill of apprehension that ran through her, Mykella smiled. “I've been concerned, and thought you should know.”

“I know, dear daughter, and I appreciate it. Now…might we enjoy dinner?”

Her father might appreciate her concern, Mykella thought, but he didn't seem to understand the gravity of the situation. Enjoy dinner when thousands of golds were being diverted? After but a momentary pause, she replied, “I'm certain we should.”

“Good food is always worth enjoying,” added Eranya. “Sometimes, the simple pleasures are the best.”

“True.” Feranyt glanced at his mistress.

That look and the feelings behind it caused Mykella to turn her eyes away, toward the door to the family dining room. She hurried ahead and opened the door, as much to avoid revealing the way she had flushed as to be polite. Her increasing ability to sense what others felt was going to be a considerable drawback unless she learned to maintain a pleasant demeanor and expression—no matter what she sensed.

Once she followed her father and Eranya into the dining room, where her other siblings were already seated and waiting, she quickly sat down.

Immediately, Muergya began serving. Each diner got a small browned game hen, accompanied by cheese-laced potatoes and apricot-walnut beans. Mykella knew the beans would be cool, the potatoes warm, and the game hen as warm as it should be.

Ice pellets rattled against the windows, hard and fast, then died away as the wind subsided, before resuming their clicking against the glass.

“A bit of an ice-storm,” mused Feranyt.

“Winter has been so chill this year.” Eranya shivered, then looked at her platter. “This is a good meal for a cold night.”

Rachylana and Salyna exchanged glances. Mykella maintained a pleasant smile. They all knew the winter had been mild. Two years before, snow had fallen week after week, tenday after tenday, until it filled the streets of Tempre, and all but the main channel of the River Vedra had frozen over.

“You must have grown up in Syan or Soupat,” suggested Rachylana.

“There aren't any Southern Guard posts in Syan,” said Jeraxylt.

“We spent more time in Hyalt,” replied Eranya. “Father was the detachment commander there before he was stipended off.”

Mykella just hoped that Rachylana didn't press. Majer Allahyr had died, just the year before, from some sort of lingering illness he'd picked up patrolling the eastern side of the Coastal Range in the high hills west of Hyalt. That was why he'd been given a stipend. It was also probably why Eranya had been receptive to the Lord-Protector's advances, because stipends went only to wives when a guard died, and Eranya's mother had died years earlier.

“Is Hyalt that warm?” Salyna asked quickly.

“In the summer, it can be as hot as Soupat, but the winters are cooler.” Eranya smiled. “I do like the seasons in Tempre…and the people.” She smiled fondly at Feranyt.

Mykella actually sensed warmth from the young woman when she looked at Feranyt. He was so much older than Eranya, but her father was kind, and generous, and Mykella knew that Majer Allahyr had worked his way up through the ranks of the Southern Guards. So Eranya's early life could not have been that easy, especially after her mother's death.

“Oh…did I mention that we received a communiqué from the Landarch?” asked Feranyt, glancing toward Rachylana. “His envoy will be arriving shortly, certainly within the week. He's likely to stay through the season-turn.”

“Envoy for matching?” Rachylana raised a single eyebrow.

“And to work out more effective terms for sharing the patrols of the passes between Lanachrona and Deforya along the northern high road. The brigands have gotten worse this winter.” Feranyt took a small swallow of the amber wine.

Of course they had. Mykella wanted to snort. Without nearly so much snow, and without the bitter winds, there were more traders and more opportunities for the brigands.

“Has the Landarch expressed…any preferences?” Rachylana's tone was polite.

Mykella could sense intense interest—and worry—emanating from her sister.

“I believe any preference will be reflected in what the envoy reports.” Feranyt smiled. “That is usually how it works. That was how I found your mother.”

“Wasn't Uncle Joramyl your envoy?” asked Salyna.

“He was indeed, and for that I'm most thankful. The years we had together, short as they were, were far better than for many who spend a lifetime in hidden strife.”

Mykella nodded at that. Certainly, she could recall just how happy her parents had been, even given her mother's often fragile health. Her eyes flicked to Eranya, but the dark-haired beauty didn't radiate either jealousy or resentment, but a vague sadness. Mykella could understand that.

She said little more at dinner, and then slipped away quickly, avoiding the family parlor. When she was sure she was unobserved, she created a sight-shield and slipped past the guards on both levels and down to the lowest level of the palace—and the Table chamber.

Like it or not, Ifrit or not, she
had
to learn more about the Table.

Once she had closed the door and made her way to the Table itself, she studied it for a moment. Then, given what her father had said before dinner, Mykella concentrated on having the Table find him. Immediately, the mists appeared in the silver surface, then vanished, revealing her father, now in a silver-trimmed blue dressing gown, leaning forward in his favorite armchair in the sitting room off his bedchamber and looking at Eranya, who also wore a robe, wrapped tightly enough around her to reveal her rather curved figure. Feranyt's face was intent as he talked, then shook his head.

Was he telling Eranya about what Mykella had revealed? Or was he concerned about something else? Mykella couldn't make out his lips well enough to guess at his words. She only wished the Table conveyed words.

What about Joramyl?

The mists swirled and then vanished, revealing Joramyl in the darkness. He was riding, and Mykella could catch glimpses of men in dark cloaks riding with him. She did not recognize the street or lane from what she could see, but it had narrow houses, set wall to wall, not the meanest of streets, but definitely not a street holding the dwellings of those of means. What was Joramyl doing there?

For a time, she concentrated on following Joramyl in the Table, but even with the better vision afforded by her Talent and the Table, she could see little but the riders and houses and intermittent lamps. Finally, she released the image and tried to get a sense of the Table—and to check if she could sense any hint of the Ifrit's possible reappearance.

Since she didn't feel any hint of the increased slimy purple that had heralded the Ifrit before, she half-vaulted, half-climbed onto the Table itself and concentrated on the blackness below. As she dropped through the Table and into the chill darkness beneath it, she tried not to think about the seeming impossibility of her being surrounded by solid stone and tried to seek out the points of light that she had felt before. Neither the black nor the sullen red had been useful, and she sought other light-points.

Finally, as the chill seeped deeper into her, she could make out two brighter points of light—one silver and one crimson and gold—and one fainter point of amber. Although the amber was not so bright, she felt it was somehow closer. So she focused on it. As before, for what seemed an endless time, nothing occurred. Then the diffuse amber point rushed toward her, and, abruptly, Mykella found herself standing, not upon a Table, but in an oblong depression filled perhaps a third deep with fine sand. A single light-torch, hanging askew from a wall bracket, provided the faintest of amber light, as if it were close to failing. The walls of the chamber were smooth and certainly as ancient as those in Tempre. The air was cool, but not so cool as in Tempre, and dry, yet musty. After a moment, she climbed out of the depression, careful to avoid slipping on the fine sand that intermittently coated the polished stone floor.

How had she gotten to where she was…when there was no Table here?

Beside the light-torch bracket was a square archway and a dark corridor beyond. Mykella could sense that the corridor was empty, and the dusty mustiness suggested that it had been empty for a long, long time. She stepped through the archway. Should she go on?

She took one step, then another, but before long the corridor ended at another passageway. Mykella looked to the right, then left. There didn't seem to be much difference, and she followed the right branch of the stone-walled corridor. Less than a handful of yards farther the passage ended at a wooden door. Mykella pulled the handle. The door opened, revealing an empty storage room, the far side of which was blocked with a jumble of heavy stones. After several moments, Mykella stepped back, closed the door, and returned to the branch in the corridor. After something like fifteen yards, she could sense the corridor beginning to curve, and in the distance a faint glow. After she had walked another ten yards or so, her boots crunching on the scattered sand covering the polished stone, she could make out a pair of ancient light-torches mounted in antique brackets high on the wall, one on each side of the corridor.

Another door appeared ahead. It opened easily, and Mykella found herself in an empty room, four yards wide and three deep, also lit by a pair of ancient light-torches. She could sense the absolute emptiness of the place, even beyond the open archway opposite the door. Abruptly, she realized that the door she had opened was stone-faced on the reverse, so that anyone looking at it would not even see it as a door.

After a moment of hesitation, Mykella slipped toward the archway, bounded by maroon ceramic tiles, only to discover a screen wall looming out of the darkness before her. The wall was less than three yards high and three wide, and she stepped around it.

There, she stood on a stone platform or dais, and beyond that was a soaring cavern or chamber. The platform held nothing, and there was no one in the cavern. Yet…something…something about the cavern nagged at her.

She took another step, and the darkness vanished. Light-torches she had not seen or noticed—behind her on the cavern side of the screen wall—flared into brightness. Then a roaring wave of sound crashed around her—except that it was not sound at all, but something inside her own head.

“What is…” She broke off her words as she sensed the echo and as the roaring subsided to a murmur.

The light-torches revealed the cavern to consist of tiered platforms that rose away from the one on which she stood, almost like an underground and far larger version of the reviewing stand in Tempre near the Great Piers. But who would build an underground reviewing stand—and for what? From what she could see and sense, there was no exit, although two archways filled with broken stones suggested that there once had been.

Finally, she turned and started walking back toward the Table chamber—or what had once been one. She did close the stone-faced door behind her, although she could not have said why she did.

Once she stepped through the archway into the chamber where she had begun, Mykella turned, reached up, and touched the half-hanging light-torch bracket. It turned slightly. As it did, a grinding followed. Her mouth opened as a smooth stone wall slid into place, so well fitted that there was no sign at all that there had been an entry to the corridor behind it. Then a
sizzle
issued from the light-torch, and the amber light vanished, leaving Mykella in darkness. The patter of falling pieces followed.

She could sense that the light-torch and bracket had fallen…and disintegrated into nothing. Just because she had touched them? Or had they been about to fail anyway, and had her touch merely hastened the process?

She took a deep breath. Had all her recent exploration of the corridors and the strange cavern just been so that she didn't have to confront the question before her? With no Table, how was she supposed to return to Tempre?

She forced herself to consider her situation. When she had arrived, there hadn't been a Table, and that suggested that she didn't need a Table, that she could reach places just through the greenish black below the Table, or below where the Table had been. The fainter points of light—were they where Tables had been? She wished she knew what locations the colors represented.