Authors: Auston Habershaw
Where the Saldorian Exchange dealt in the prices of fungible commoditiesâÂthings like rice and grain and karfan beansâÂthe Secret Exchange did something infinitely more complex. On a basic level, it was engaged in what Tyvian's brother called “derivatives”âÂessentially contracts between parties to exchange particular goods at particular times in the future. For instance, a mage would purchase a derivative guaranteeing to pay a trading firm a certain value for a shipload of oranges by such-Âand-Âsuch a date. In theory this would serve to guarantee the trading firm a price and would also guarantee the mage a shipload of oranges (which could then be sold to others at a presumed profit or, perhaps, to allow the mage unlimited orange juice for the foreseeable future). Altogether, the idea was to safeguard the Saldorian Exchange (or, as the magi called it, “the Mundane”) from the risk of collapse by guaranteeing fair prices and making Saldor a reliable place to do business. The magi had established it because they felt they had an obligation to secure the well-Âbeing of their home city and, furthermore, since many magi had the ability to see the future to a limited extent, such derivatives were a reliable and functionally foolproof way for them to make money.
That the whole affair had been corrupted less than a decade after its founding would surprise no one if, in fact, the average person knew anything about it. Even the members of the club a floor below only had the barest notions of what the magi (acting collectively as the Arcanostrum) actually did with the money they received and invested through their Secret Exchange. The old policy of hedging against loss with conservative derivatives had been more or less abandoned by those magi who traded here (who were, by definition, those magi most interested and talented in the sorcerous disciplines of augury, scrying, and conjuration). Since Tyvian had been alive, the magi who acted as brokers for the five colleges of the Arcanostrum were engaged in a kind of educated speculation that boggled the mind. Rather than trading directly on specific goods or companies, their investments had transformed into a variety of amalgamated “commodities.” What they traded on most often now were things like Hope, Fear, War, Joy, Anger, and a half-Âdozen other things that were simply stand-Âins for a whole series of industries and goods. Invest in War, and the derivatives would speculate as to the price of iron, leather, horses, and even things like the harvests of grain that might not come in or the public works project that would not be completed and affect trade as a result of regional conflict. Money from the magi's coffers would trickle down to the Mundane, and if their auguries had been good (and they almost always were), the profits would roll in.
Tyvian reflected for a moment that if Sahand had known how much money the Secret Exchange was making around the time of the Battle of Calassa, he would have known his bid to conquer Saldor was doomed to failure long before Varner sallied from the gates. It might have saved everybody a whole lot of trouble.
A clear, well-Âenunciated voice called out from the shadows. “The man who would rule must understand that iron is not his inspiration, nor is silk. Rule like water, and understand the hearts of men ebb and flow like the tides.”
Tyvian scowled and turned around. “Valteri,
Meditations on the Disposition of Souls
. Book . . . nine. No, ten.”
“Book eight.” Xahlven emerged from behind a pillar. He was older than Tyvian by seven years, taller by four inches, and more handsome by at least two or three degrees. His golden hair was wavy without looking mussed, and the years had blessed him with just the hint of silver at his temples. He had chiseled, masculine featuresâÂthe face of a hero on the cover of a chapbook, with dimples in all the right places and a little curl that came down at the center of his forehead. His eyes, like Tyvian's, were a sharp, incisive blue. He was smiling now, as he often was. “You need to brush up on your philosophy.”
Tyvian shrugged. “I've been traveling a lot. Turns out lugging books around is quite a bear.”
Xahlven nodded. “You look good. Very rugged, for a change. A life of adventure has roughened your edges just enough to make you look dangerous.”
“They're called scars, Xahlven, and they weren't a fashion choice.” Tyvian eyed Xahlven's black robes and elaborate, onyx-Âtopped magestaff. “Archmage, now? Mother must be overjoyed.”
“With mother, how would one ever know?” Xahlven smirked.
The conversation died for a moment. The two brothers stood three paces apart, regarding each other with the silent expectation that the other would make some kind of sudden move. Tyvian had no interest in shaking hands, and Xahlven, knowing this, didn't offer. The time for pleasantries had apparently ended. “What's your hand in all this?”
Xahlven laughed. “You'll need to be more specific.”
Tyvian rolled his eyes and gestured to himself. “Do I really? The brother you haven't seen in over a decade is here, standing in front of you, and you're claiming not to know why?”
His brother shrugged. “I can imagine two minor reasons and one major one, though only you know which is the truth. You are here because you have run out of money, you are here because of Myreon Alafarr, or you are here because of
that.
” Xahlven pointed at Tyvian's ring. “Actually, it is
mostly
because of that, isn't it?”
Tyvian felt the edge of his mouth tighten before he could prevent it. Dammit. He wasn't surprised that Xahlven knew about the ring, of course, but he took no pleasure in being correct. When dealing with his family, he was dealing with Âpeople who used others like most Âpeople used currencyâÂthey invested, they saved, they guided, they spent. Every piece of information Tyvian gave them was a weapon in their arsenal, and every piece of information they provided in return was a lure, a trap. It was very much like dealing with himself, actually.
Xahlven, though, was smarter than he was. He knew it and Xahlven knew it. Tyvian liked to think his life outside of Saldor had allowed him to come to terms with that, but it hadn't. The fact that he had gotten the wrong book for the Valteri quotation burned in his guts for no good reason other than Xahlven had corrected him about something, and he
hated
being corrected by Xahlven. When they were childrenâÂTyvian no older than ten and Xahlven a teenager just entering the ArcanostrumâÂTyvian had tried to stab his older brother in the hand with a letter opener for criticizing his handwriting on a card he was writing to his mother for her birthday. Xahlven laughed at him. So had his mother, come to think of it. The thought of it still made him angry, as did every stupid trivia question his brother had ever asked. Xahlven knew this, too, and had asked him the idiotic Valteri question anyway.
Tyvian took a deep breath. “What does she want with me?”
“Mother, as you well know, does not share her plans with me, Tyvian.” Xahlven waved his staff for a moment and gazed into the distanceâÂthe motion was too subtle and clever for Tyvian to divine what kind of spell it was. “If you're here to get a leg up on whatever she has planned, I won't be much help. I suppose you'll have to ask her yourself.”
Xahlven didn't “suppose” anythingâÂhe knew and was being deliberately obtuse. “Mother has never had a plot whose aftermath you didn't seek to exploit, Xahlven. Just tell me.”
Tyvian's brother sighed and gave him a long look, as though trying to decide something. Tyvian imagined this display was meant to imply that Xahlven was making a gut decision to trust him with some kind of information, but Tyvian knew his brother too well. Xahlven had probably planned to tell him this weeks ago. “Very well,” Xahlven said, “but if I tell you, will you leave? You've already been noticed by three magi so far, and I can only feasibly erase the memories of two of them without causing a fuss.”
Tyvian snorted. “I certainly wouldn't want to cause a fuss, now would I?”
Xahlven rolled his eyes. “Do grow up someday. So far as I am aware, Mother has some manner of disagreement with your old friend, Gethrey Andolon, who has become
quite
active on the Mundane these past years. He seems to be trying to angle some kind of leverage here as well.” Xahlven cast his eyes across the floor of the Secret Exchange to the central pool and those clustered there. “There are whispers he seeks to affect a crash.”
Tyvian laughed. “Impossible. How?”
Xahlven's gaze never wavered from the cluster of magi in the distance. “Auguries aren't destinies, TyvianâÂaren't you fond of saying that? Nothing is ever guaranteed.”
Tyvian followed Xahlven's gaze to find his brother was looking more or less directly at a specific mageâÂa dour-Âlooking, iron-Âhaired Verisi with a crystal eye very much like Carlo diCarlo's and wearing the tight hose and blooming breeches in fashion in the Verisi court. Whoever he was, he was a Verisi augur, probably bonded to the baron's serÂvice after earning his staff, and he was wearing sufficient gold jewelry to show that he was well-Âcompensated for his craft.
“His name is DiVarroâÂhe is Andolon's creature by way of enormous sums of money.” Xahlven turned back to him. “I'm sure you noticed the patsy downstairs, correct?”
Tyvian said nothing for a momentâÂwould it be better to feign knowledge or admit ignorance? He made a snap decision. “I did, yes.”
Xahlven gave Tyvian one of his trademarked
aren't I so smart
grins. “Did you? Well, anyway, you'll probably meet him in a few minutes. You'd better go. Shall I tell mother to expect you?”
Tyvian thought of the shipment of clothing he'd already had sent to Glamourvine. “No, don't bother. I'm sure she's expecting me already, just as you were.”
Xahlven shrugged. “You are my brotherâÂif I can't predict your behavior, whose
can
I predict?”
Tyvian scowled. “Good-Âbye, Xahlven.” He then ducked back out the open window and went back the way he came.
Back on the roof, he peered over the edge to see the front of the club. There was a coach pulling up sporting the scales and stars of Saldor, followed closely by a troop of mirror men marching in a double rank. Firepikes and everything. Tyvian sighed. “Great.”
Â
CHAPTER 13
NOT FRIENDS
A
“patsy” was somebody who had been egged into a duelâÂusually a fellow with an inflated sense of pride and a poor sense of mortality. This fellow, whoever he was, had spotted Tyvian on his way through the trading floor on the way in and taken umbrage at his presence because somebody had intentionally been whispering nasty things in his ear about Tyvian for some period of time for this very purpose. Tyvian knew that it meant that this idiot was essentially a weaponâÂa weapon timed to go off exactly when he laid eyes on him and began to plot his intention to challenge him to a duel. The effect of the weapon, though, was not to get Tyvian stabbed, but rather to get him arrested. Duels were illegal in Saldor. The precise moment the patsy drew his sword, the Defenders would be kicking in the doors and arresting both of them, as had been foreordained by the Mage Defender in command of this section of town. When Tyvian was younger, all manner of precautions needed to be taken in order for a duel to actually happen. The patsy, being an idiot by definition, would not have taken any such precautions.
Tyvian considered jumping off the roof, but it was at least a twenty foot drop to the nearest roof, and almost fifty feet to the cobblestone street belowâÂnot especially encouraging. “Kroth take it.” He sighed and, grabbing the cornice again, swung himself back into the open window.
There were so many gawkers by the window, wondering what had become of him, that Tyvian nearly kicked a woman in the teeth and in actual fact bowled over the portly bore who had been aggressively name-Âdropping to him a few minutes earlier. They fell together onto the lush carpets, the fat man's hands wrapped round Tyvian's waist like a lover. The fellow was so flustered that he seemed unable to function, flapping about beneath Tyvian like a half-Âdead fish. Tyvian somehow got the man's beard tangled in one of his buttons. So much for a graceful entrance.
He was still struggling to extricate himself from the fleshy clutches of that tubby gossip-Âhound when he felt something soft slap against the back of his head. “What the hell?” He looked up.
There was a man there holding a glove. He was youngâÂno older than his early twenties, dressed in a rakish hat and wearing his hair in pink ringlets on either side of a hairless, earnest face. “Tyvian Reldamar, I challenge you to a duel.”
Tyvian rolled his eyes. “Now? Can't you see I'm busy?”
The fellow straightened his doublet and threw his shoulders back. “You are a blight upon the good name of the Society and a poor influence on the younger membership. I am prepared to allow you to submit to my request that you relinquish your membership and, thereby, satisfy honor. If you refuse, it must be swords, and it must be now.”
Tyvian planted a hand on the fat man's face and pushed the fellow away so that his beard left a substantial portion of its growth knotted around Tyvian's buttons. The old man squeaked in pain, but Tyvian ignored him, despite a slight twinge from the ring. “Who the hell are you, boy?”
The patsy blinked. “I am Malcorn DeVauntnesse of Halmor.”
“Your uncle is Faring DeVauntnesse?” Tyvian straightened his clothing. He couldn't be certain, but he imagined the Defenders were in the process of setting a perimeter around the club as he spoke. Time was not on his side.
“My uncle has that distinction, yes.” Young Malcorn rested his hand on the hilt of a very elaborate rapierâÂit had clearly been fashioned by more jewelers than it had bladesmiths.
The crowd parted around Tyvian as he took up a position across from the young man and took off his doublet. “Did your uncle ever tell you about how I cut off his balls once?”
The crowd gasped. Young Malcorn's expression darkened. “He told me you fought with dishonor. I take it you will not yield?” The boy drew his sword. Tyvian thought he could hear shouting coming from the second floor. From the corner of his eye he saw the levitating silver tray he had spoken to earlier arrive bearing the bottle of wine he had ordered.
Tyvian stepped forward until the boy's rapier was a hand's breadth from his chest. “The day I yield to a DeVauntnesse is the day I put on waders and fish for eels like a marsh-Âborn urchin.”
“En garde, then.”
Tyvian rolled his eyes. “Not hardly.” With a quick sweep of his arm, he tossed his doublet over the patsy's face. Young Malcorn lifted his free hand to pull it off, but in that time Tyvian snatched his wine bottle and threw it overhand at the idiot's head. The heavy glass bounced off Malcorn's temple with a low-Âpitched
bong
and the dandy dropped like a string-Âcut marionette.
At this point a Defender's magically amplified voice was shouting
“EVERYBODY DOWN!”
and everyone around Tyvian was dropping on their faces. Entering the hall were a trio of mirror men with a Mage Defender in tow. They weren't wielding firepikes, thoughâÂit wouldn't do to set the Venerable Society of Famuli on fireâÂso instead they had their rapiers drawn. In an even match, Tyvian could have dispatched all three in short order, but the Mage Defender was the real threatâÂhe was already weaving bladewards and guards around his three men and urging them forward with enchantments that let them skip across the long room with all the speed and grace of Taqar gazelles.
“Okay,” Tyvian muttered, “out the window after all.”
He turned and rushed back toward the open window beside the lodestone fountain from which issued courier djinnâÂhis ticket out. Spying a note in the hand of one prone gentleman investor, Tyvian snatched it up and threw it into the fountain.
“Here now!” The man looked up, “I wasn't ready to send that!”
Tyvian didn't respond, but instead drew Chance in time to parry two thrusts from two separate Defenders. He backed up and, just as the cube of black Dweomer formed in his peripheral vision, leapt out the window.
He timed it almost perfectlyâÂboth Tyvian and the construct exited the window at the same time, but Tyvian was too late to land atop it, as had been his hope. So, instead of straddling the black cube as it zoomed off on its errand, he wound up hanging from it by one hand. The surface of the thing was perfectly smooth and so cold it burned.
TheyâÂTyvian and the djinnâÂrocketed over the neighboring building and then dropped to ten feet above the street beyond. The only reason this didn't knock Tyvian into space was the fact that his left hand seemed to have frozen to the surface of the construct as firmly as a tongue to a steel pole in wintertime. The pain was unique, and Tyvian expressed its novelty in a series of colorful profanities.
He was now zooming above the busy Saldorian streets, making a beeline for the Mundane, which was about as far as this escape plan had resolved itself before he threw himself out an open window. He now had to figure out how to get off the damned thing without breaking his neck
before
he arrived in the Mundane and was promptly arrested by the Defenders no doubt waiting for him there.
And, if possible, he was hoping to keep the skin on his left hand intact in the process.
It was then that a large and well-Âappointed black coach-Âand-Âfour galloped beneath him. The coachman had to be a madmanâÂhe was whipping his team into a frenzy in his effort to match the djinn's speed. He kept shooting looks over his shoulder at the escaping smuggler, his eyes wild. “What the . . .”
From the side window of the coach, Gethrey Andolon's blue-Âhaired head emerged, the ridiculous ship-Âhat on the verge of foundering in the face of the coach's frantic pace. He motioned to the roof of the coach. “Drop here! Hurry!”
Tyvian looked aheadâÂthe djinn was less than two hundred yards from the exchange now, and he was about to get smashed against a flying buttress if he didn't jump now. With a grimace, he twisted his numb and frozen hand. It came free from the surface of the courier djinn with a disconcerting tearing noise and Tyvian fell a few feet to the roof of the coach, which immediately made a sharp turn down a narrow side street. He felt himself fly off the top of the coach and only had time to roll into a ball before bashing against the cobblestones and rolling. The wind was knocked out of him; stars danced in his eyes.
The coach rolled up beside him and the door opened; a strong, rough hand yanked him from the cobblestones and deposited him on the floor of the cab in the blink of an eye.
“Drive!” Gethrey's voice barked out a window, and drive they did. The coach rumbled out of the alley and onto the street with all the haste a team of four horses could muster.
Tyvian pulled himself off the floor and into the luxuriously cushioned seats of the coach across from his old friend. Gethrey was sitting with a flute of champagne clutched primly between two fingers. “My, you haven't changed a bit, Tyv! Still swinging from chandeliers and the lot of it, eh?”
As Tyvian regained his equilibrium, he found himself wondering who it was that had dragged him off the streetâÂcertainly not Gethrey, who was soft as butter. Then who? He shook his head, trying to clear it.
“Relax,” Gethrey smiled, offering him some champagne, “you're safe. Nothing to worry about.”
Tyvian took the glass but said nothing. He got the eerie sensation that somebody was breathing down his neckâÂsomebody close and not friendly at all. He tried to block out all distractions to isolate the feeling, but it was difficultâÂthe rumble of the coach, the taste of the champagne, the stench of Gethrey's cologne, the throbbing of his sore hand . . .
. . . but then he had it. There was a third figure in the coachâÂa figure made of shadows and nothingness. A figure who had a button tattoo just above the corner of his lips.
A Quiet Man of the Mute Prophets, sitting right next to him, shoulder-Âto-Âshoulder.
“To another successful escape,” Gethrey said, holding up his glass to toast.
Tyvian obliged him, grimacing. “And to many more.”
T
he
Argent Wind
was an affront to shipbuildingâÂa great, fat, four-Âmasted lunk of lumber, a hull more circular than elliptical, and a fore- and sterncastle so gaudily gilded and so massively constructed that it was a miracle of buoyancy that the vessel didn't sink under its own weight. It was a twelve-Âyear-Âold dunce's idea of a luxury yachtâÂall gold, glitz, and expense, but with all the refinement and practicality of a nickel-Âplated kite. As they passed beneath the bowsprit, Tyvian marveled at its incredibly poor tasteâÂit depicted not just a single figure, but rather an entire tableau of nautical themes, each clashing with the last. There was the selkie king with his trident astride a great seahorse, there were pegasi, there were dolphins, there were topless beauties fanning themselves with scallop shells, and all of them arranged in a kind of profane explosion of design elements. Tyvian could see the sculptor's pain in the workâÂit was wrought in the face of each figure, a kind of mute anguish that said,
Why was this asked of me? Whom did I wrong to deserve this?
“Isn't she something?” Gethrey observed, grinning at the monstrosity his wealth had commissioned. “I spared no expense.”
“I certainly believe it.” Tyvian did his best not to gag. Gethrey had always been afflicted with a certain gauche style, but this . . . this was . . .
Gethrey's servantâÂa sailor in a mocked-Âup soldier's costumeâÂrowed them both (
and the Quiet Man
, Tyvian told himself,
don't
forget the Quiet Man!
) alongside to a boatswain's chair that would hoist them aboard. Tyvian elected to climb up the cargo netting with the sailor while Gethrey sailed up to the deck like a debutante on a porch swing.
“Oh Tyvian,” Gethrey chuckled as the smuggler rolled onto the deck, “you really have fallen from grace, haven't you?”
Tyvian picked himself up and dusted himself off. “Whatever do you mean?”
Gethrey laughed again, rolling his eyes as though to say,
Don't say you don't know!
He motioned Tyvian belowdecks. “Come along! This way!”
Tyvian found himself standing in a room that might have been separated into five or six cabins on a regular luxury vessel but combined here into a single audience chamber. As had been the case outside, the interior was dripping with gold leaf and baroque woodwork. A crimson carpet the thickness and consistency of a well-Âmaintained lawn stretched from wall to wall. It had sweeping staircases, a gaudy fountain, and windows in all the wrong places. It offended Tyvian's eyes, so he looked instead at Gethrey, with his blue hair and ship-Âhat, whose appearance he found marginally less painful.
Artus and Brana were there. Artus was seated on big fluffy cushions and sipping some kind of wine from overlarge wineglasses. “Hey there, Tyv!” Artus said, his speech mildly slurred. “Join the party!”
Brana said nothingâÂhe was curled into a ball, asleep. In his human shroud, this made it look a lot like he was dead. His tongue was hanging out at an odd angle, too, which completed the illusion.
Gethrey grinned at Tyvian and waggled a finger at him. “Having me followed, eh? Do you really think so little of me? You must have known I'd notice!” He let himself sink into another giant cushion-Âchair.
Tyvian shrugged. “The thought crossed my mind, but I had to be sure.”
Gethrey snapped his fingers and one of his servants stepped forward with a bottle of wine for Tyvian to inspect.
Tyvian inspected itâÂit was a Kholdris '16, arguably one of the most expensive wines in existence. It wasn't for drinking, thoughâÂit was expensive because it was the last year this Verisi vintage grown by a pirate king on his own private island had been harvested before the Akrallian fleet burned the entirety of the island to ash and salted the earth. It was a collector's item. Tyvian was horrified, therefore, to see that the servant had a corkscrew stuffed in his belt.