Laostic watched the tide go out beneath him to reveal the sandbar walkway to the Walled City of Tremallan.
It was in its full glory. The sun brought the pearly lustre out of its stones and sparkled over the waves of emerald and beryl blue. The sea lay low enough to see the reefs of coral and rock crystal – with their hundreds of bright fishes, regal octopuses, and even a group of curious newborn bucca – before it descended into the darker turquoise of the deeper waters.
But on the governor’s face, no trace of wonder could be seen. His brow was furrowed beneath his short-cropped, grey-flecked hair, his jaw set and bunched up around the puncture wound on his left cheek. Something was moving inside him, but he could or would not see it. He watched instead as the small crowd of people who had been gathering at the North Gate started to make their way across the sand towards his fortress – and in particular, at the cloaked figure who walked anonymously in their midst, gaze down and hood raised.
Though the branches buckle and the fruit bring bane
Never will I be pushed off my perch again
He mouthed the words of a ballad he had heard a handful of years ago as if chewing congealed vinegar. He had no notion as to why, but they had been flitting through his mind ever since – especially in moments like this. Laostic shook his head sadly and, with a soundless sigh, turned back into his study.
His desk was a single block of rain-smoothed stone along the wall on one side of the room, which otherwise was lined with plinths holding unostentatious items of historical interest – helmets, gold torcs, ancient navigation equipment, and the like. In the centre of the room stood a wide, round table of rich, reddish mahogany – a rare wood in these parts, but nevertheless subtle as a display of wealth and power. Laostic sat behind his desk and gestured. His bodyguard Loïc, who had been standing as solid and unobtrusive as the plinths, detached himself from a shadow on the wall and stood at attention.
“What’s it like being back in Tremallan?” Laostic asked.
Loïc’s eyes went distant. He ground his molars back and forth, took a deep breath through his nose – as if to take in the scent of old wood which hung round the room, or the hint of verdant fields inland which hid beneath the briny air of the seashore. The muscles around one cheek tightened slightly as he dipped deeper into his memories.
“Familiar.”
He said no more, but something in the gnarled tightness around his shoulders softened, and the hand he rested on his hip against the pommel of his sword turned in little circles, loosening his wrist and sending ripples up the length of his thick, brown cloak.
Laostic smiled, and they gazed at each other before a hint of grimness returned to his expression. He looked down at his desk for a brief moment.
“I’m aware we have a conversation pending. Don’t think that I’ve forgotten. But… just give me a few days. To set things in order here.”
Loïc withdrew his hand back under his cloak and gave a fractional nod.
“You’d best send Tristran in, then.” When Loïc was almost at the door, he added, “And bring her in as well. To the sea-facing window.”
A few minutes later, an elaborately-dressed man swished into the room. All the buckles on his coloured leathers were of different metals, and the seahawk pin which held his waist-length cape back over one shoulder had a sapphire in each eye. He flicked his long, coiffed auburn hair over one shoulder and beamed towards the most powerful man in Tremallan.
“Governor! Congratulations are in order – and my appreciation for your consistent stewardship is surpassed only by my delight in your astonishing accomplishment.” Tristran cocked a hip and recited a poem.
“The straight-backed hero said – be warned!
Foolish Orkway with violence did respond.
Tremallan’s forces to their port did return.
And smoke did rise from their rooftops by the morn.”
He heard the door slide open and a stiffness crept into his tone as he watched Loïc sidle in.
“And here he is. The hero of the hour. Tremallan’s champion; our rival’s ruin. Though, thanks to you, Orkway is, from this day forth, our rival no longer. I must confess that none of us suspected quite the extent of your abilities. Certainly no one could accuse you of…” His eyes flashed momentarily to Laostic. “Drawing unnecessary attention to yourself.”
Loïc paid him not the slightest bit of mind. He took his place between two plinths and kept his impassive gaze straight ahead.
“Thank you, Tristran,” said Laostic. “I at least did no more than duty would demand. But please. Be seated.”
“Yes – of course. You will want to hear my report.” He turned the chair before the Governor’s desk around a few degrees, sat down, and crossed his legs.
“It feels trivial after your recent exploits, but there are tidbits of some minor note to share nonetheless. Though Renn-e-loc is quiet over the winter, and the more comfortable, if not necessarily complacent, nobles make off to their warmer residences along the southern coast – nevertheless their key courtiers and the more influential, if not always unimaginative, among them remain to set in place the schemes which the returning holidaymakers will have to spend the rest of the year playing catch-up with.”
“Do they?”
“Yes, indeed! The court has not been idle! Land reform is still on the cards – and with that, few may rest entirely easy! The story is that it will merely reshuffle a few ancient boundaries, all long out of date, along the southern half of the isle…”
“Good. Listen, Tristran–”
“And indeed, that does faithfully represent the bulk of it. However! That is not all! Through the course of an extensive investigation involving a host of highly influential personal contacts, I have determined that the court is all but sure to increase the tax on the land being used for cattle pasture. Particularly that for dairy produce. And that, Governor, is where it could impact us. For as you know, our neighbours…”
“Tristran. We did not summon you to hear your report.”
“Indeed, indeed. Well might you say that! But even if Tremallan’s hills… wait, what?”
“You’re not here to report.”
“I see. In that case… no, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t see at all. Why, then, did you call me all the way back from Renn-e-loc?”
Loïc’s jaw tightened. Laostic couldn’t help but grin at his old friend’s frustration – but he soon regained his granite grimness as he turned to face the fop in front of him.
“We brought you back to let you know your services will no longer be required as our agent in the capital.”
There was silence for many seconds. But even then, Tristran seemed more suspicious than stunned.
“That can’t be. My network of contacts is unparalleled. I built it from scratch. I’ve completely turned our standing in the capital around – and all of it relies on me. I stand at the centre of all the threads. It would take years to-”
“There’s the rub, though. You’ve integrated yourself perhaps a little too well. Taken on an independence and strategic authority we never agreed on.”
“But you have been waging a war with Orkway for the last months! I naturally had to step up-”
“Nonsense. You knew your remit, and what overstepping it would mean.”
“This is absurd! What overstepping are you referring to?”
Laostic pulled out a sheaf of parchment from a small pile on his desk.
“Four unreported meetings in the past month – two with the Count of Valdoc himself. Intercepte-”
“Complete rubbish. You’ve been having me followed? Your sources must have been bought off.”
Laostic paused and fixed Tristran with a Medusa’s stare. He could only guess that the younger man was trying to string things out in order to buy time to think. And so the governor leant back and watched him silently.
A change came over Tristran. He went quite still, sinking back into himself. His features which, when animated, had given the impression of slender grace, now just seemed thin and ineffectual beneath his lank brown hair.
“I would like the opportunity to discuss things. To talk openly. There is such complexity at play here. There is so much at stake. If we can speak with all our cards out on the table, instead of strategizing around each other, so much progress could be made so quickly. So much could become clear.”
“You are welcome to take a few weeks out in the country and collect your thoughts. Prepare a full treatise on governance and diplomacy if you like. It will be read.”
“Governor Laostic. Please, deal with me straightly in this regard. Is there a punishment lined up? Either official or… otherwise?”
“No. Just a dismissal – nothing more.”
Tristran placed an elbow on his knee and chewed on one knuckle, his foot tapping rapidly on the floor, his gaze distant.
Loïc came up and offered him a skin of strong but fine apple brandy and a heavy, thick-bottomed wooden cup. Tristran started, giving Loïc a look of open discomfort, but nodded thanks as he took them in hand and poured himself a drink.
“There’s so much I have to tell you.”
“Collect yourself. Prepare some documents. We’ll grant you an audience in a fortnight.”
“That’s really it, then. I’m out?”
Laostic rustled the edges of a sheaf of parchment and said no more.
“What will I do now?”
“I’m sure House Citrine would be very happy to keep you in their employ.”
“You don’t understand!” Tristran exploded, jumping up from his seat and throwing the cup and wineskin into the air. He would have leaned over the stone table and shouted into the governor’s face in his rage, had Loïc not held him back by his shoulder. Tristran noticed Loïc’s other hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Under his arm, pressed up against his side, were the thrown cup and wineskin. Tristran stepped back and patted himself down – as if it were his clothes which were in disarray.
“Citrine intends no treason. Of the three great trading houses, they should be the last ones on your mind. It’s true, they feel threatened at the moment, and are acting out because of it. The bloodthirsty blockheads at House Agate have a whole new lease of life for their atavistic, sheep-abducting escapades now that Orkway has been all but wiped out as a force in the Inner Isles. But that will make the Court at Renn-e-loc all the more hostile to our little city of renegades. We’re just getting too powerful to be ignored anymore. So it’s not a question of colluding with the court, or selling off our independence. Still less of subverting your position as Governor! We have to mitigate the damage, plain and simple! Have a voice at court, ensure they-”
There was an exaggerated creak. Tristran turned to see Loïc holding the door open. Laostic hid another grin. Tristran had been here enough times to know the heavy door was well-oiled, and opened silently. Loïc’s face was as blank as a cliff face.
Enraged, Tristran hissed his final words out to his erstwhile employer.
“You’re blind, and looking backwards. The problem is not out at sea.” Laostic winced at that phrasing, but it only manifested on his face as a slight squint of the eyes, which Tristran did not notice. “Neither is it in the capital. It’s just beyond the Aray Hills.”
Tristran paused for effect, and proceeded with lowered voice.
“House Celadon has succeeded in making contact with the Sunset Sect. They have a Senior Master in their pocket. That’s no balding, toothless druid who has spent three decades on a wave-battered hunk of rock just to learn a few True Names he can’t even pronounce anymore, standing on an upended barrel and wailing at our walls to fall. This is High Sorcery from the Continent. Civilization-levelling power. They wouldn’t just poison the air in your lungs – they’d give you gills and shove the sea out past the Fourteen Sisters. They’d just as soon reach back and kill your grandfather before he sprouted his first ball hairs than bid you to be silent.”
He stood staring down at Laostic for a few seconds, then swept his short cloak around his shoulder.
“There. That’s my ‘treatise on governance and diplomacy’ for you. Study it well.”
And with that, he finally walked out of the room. Loïc shut the door behind him, scratched behind his ear with the edge of his palm, and walked over to a plinth. He took the cuirass that stood there and laid it gently on the great table in the centre of the room. There was the grinding sound of stone on stone as he took the plinth with two hands and pushed it along the wall, revealing a rectangular opening.
“Vall. You may come in now.”
A woman ducked through the opening and cast her sharp gaze around the room. She was short – the crown of her head reaching barely halfway up Loïc’s chest. And she was young, if tanned and weather beaten – not even a quarter century old. But she carried with her an air of explosive power perfectly controlled, like a champion racehorse held in check only by the bridle in the rider’s open palm.
Laostic was still taking notes from the previous encounter, and did not look up as he asked, “What did you think?”
“I really don’t know, sir. It was pretty abrupt, but – is it really alright to just let him go like that?”
“We’ll learn a great deal from his movements over the next few days. The more flustered he is, the better. But don’t worry about things on our end. What did you think of what he said?”
“I really don’t understand politics, sir. I guess it must be real tricky for you to keep the big trading houses in line. Oh. Right. Sorry, sir. I suppose what I took from it was that House Agate did want to go a-raidin’ again, House Citrine did try to cozy up with the nobles, and House Celadon did done consort with some magefolk or something.”
Laostic looked up from his notes and smiled at her.
“Alright. What do you think of him, then? As a person.”
She looked out at the balcony, and the strain showed on her face as she tried to think of something useful to say.
“He had pretty clothes, sir.”
“Is that it? He prides himself on his wits.”
She shrugged.
“He’s clever at picking out pretty clothes then, sir.”
A stifled snort sounded out from a corner of the room. When she looked, Loïc was back to doing his best crag impression again.
“What? Did I say something wrong?”
“No, Vall. No, you didn’t. I’m just beginning to understand why Loïc recommended you so highly. What about what he said at the end, though? About the sorcerers. Do you really think our Inner Isle spellslingers would be categorically outclassed? The Arcane Reavers of the Floating City of Falena, or the Court Magisters of Ys?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“But surely you’ve seen some impressive feats of magecraft out on the high seas.”
“Sure. The world is a big place though, sir.”
“Do you think you could take one of them on?”
“I have no idea.”
“What would you do if push came to shove and you had to fight one?”
“…what else could I do, except try to make sure they don’t know I’m coming, and be up behind them before they find out?” She and the governor stared at each other in silence for a few seconds. “If that doesn’t work, then I don’t know, sir.”
Laostic stood up, strode around his desk, and sat on its edge with his arms crossed, so that he was face-to-face to Vall.
“How good are you with people, Vall?” he asked.
“I really don’t know anything about diplomacy, sir.”
“I’m not talking about fat nobles and sly courtiers. I’m talking about people. How good are you at understanding what makes them sink or swim? What to do when a friend gets homesick. How to tell when someone’s lying to you. What to say when someone asks for advice about one thing but really wants to talk about something else. Those kinds of things.”
After a minute, Laostic looked away with a wistful smile.
“Alright. She’ll do, Loïc.”
“What? But I didn’t say anything, sir.”
“Don’t worry. You said plenty.”
Loïc placed a whalebone harpoon on the central table and pushed another plinth along the far side of the room.
“Is every one of these hiding a secret passage, sir?”
Laostic gestured her forward towards the opening. “Not the one with the model sailboat.”
Without a glance backwards, she ducked in, muttering under her breath as she went. “None of them have a model sailboat, you old sea wolf.”
David Leon 