The Sacred Hunt Duology (78 page)

The common itself was huge, but its size was never felt; it was always occupied with one caravan or another, and there were permanent stalls and buildings that always had wares to sell, even during the off-season. It was guarded, sort of, but the merchants themselves watched like hawks, and in this area, with foreign tempers to contend with, thieves were known to have fatal accidents.

It was a good area to pick through—but Jewel didn't consider it worth the risk to her den. As she swung her hips round to the side, flattening to a profile with just enough speed to avoid getting the pommel of a large sword in her rib cage, she remembered why.

Southern tempers.

And she knew enough about them; she had one. Her mother's. She also had the language, although it was rusty, and she knew how to inflect Essalieyanese like a true Annagarian. She rarely did it, but it did come in useful; people tended to treat foreigners like idiots if they didn't have a mutual language.

Unfortunately, Annagarian was known to about a quarter of the people in the city—or in the city that she knew. Maybe not on the Isle, although on the Isle some people also spoke Weston. She felt a pang of envy and let it go. When she'd established herself firmly as ATerafin, she'd learn whatever she damned well pleased.

But she had to survive her own temper, and her work with Devon. He could be such a charming, friendly man, it galled her when his mask dropped; it was as if he put on the effort for everyone else but didn't consider her worthy of it. Luckily, they were out in the streets and he was all jaunty smile. Maybe he'd even be attractive if she didn't know what he was really like.

He had a Southern air about his features, but it was subtle—so he used a bit of color to highlight the contours of his cheeks and the shadows beneath his eyes. He worked quickly with what looked like ash, and the effect was astounding. Another thing she wanted to learn.

Her own features would pass, but he worked his facial art on her as well. Then he gave her something that smelled, well, musty and told her to bathe in it. She didn't ask why. But that was only because she wasn't getting much in the way of answers to the questions she did ask.

Devon is in charge. Listen to Devon. Follow his orders.
She swung to the side again, lithe and easy, as a small palanquin, with its attendant guards, pushed its way through the crowd. Her belt jangled; it was an irritation, a distraction.

It'll be over soon
, she told herself. She twisted her fingers in the gambler's prayer, hoping to catch the attention of Luck's smile.

In the last two days, they'd been to well over eight sites—each, according to Jewel's memory, an entrance into the maze under the city streets. They found dirt, or solid rock, or solid wood. Nothing else. The mage, who had accompanied Jewel on previous excursions, had been left behind; if he hadn't found evidence of magical concealment so far, there was unlikely to be any. According, of course, to Devon.

Devon's word obviously carried weight; the mage was gone. Jewel was glad although she kept it to herself. The mage swore like any member of her den, and had a similar temper; he also had quirks and odd bits to him that made him interesting. He rarely used his magic, and when he did, it was always quiet, not at all like the use of great magics in the old stories. But in spite of all this, or perhaps because of it, he made her very uncomfortable. It was as if he were wearing a mask that didn't quite fit.

“Jasmine, dear.”

She was tired; the nightmares robbed her of sleep. Jewel often had a sharpness that gave her an edge over other people, but that was blunted now. She grimaced, knowing that she deserved his disdain, and hating it nonetheless. She mumbled an apology and he nodded curtly.

They passed beneath the shade of another ring of trees, and stopped to rest there, pulling their skins, as many of the other market goers sitting in the ring had already done, and drinking deeply. Then, having finished, Jewel smiled weakly—and falsely—at her companion, and began to lead him toward the market's center. There, in a building as old as the city, the market authority ruled the merchants, taking its tariffs, setting its exchange rates and, on occasions when difficulty was suspected, searching the cargoes of the traders who traveled the Kings' charter routes to see that they complied with their majesties' laws.

The market authority was a hive of business, of barter that Jewel herself did not fully understand, and of guards, dressed in the standard livery of the Crowns,
which Jewel understood quite well. These guards were not magisterians, but rather guards who directly served the market authority; they were not as severe as some of the magisterians because they were quartered with foreigners whom the market authority did not wish to offend. Still, when they caught a thief, they weren't gentle about the handling.

She relaxed a little as they approached the open arches that led to the courtyard of the authority. Here, there was such a buzz of traffic that she felt unnoticed and unnoticeable. The stone of the walls, defying the midday sun, was cool; she used it to guide her steps, remembering the two times that she had seen the market authority from the inside. The first was upon discovering the exit from the web of exits that made up the tunnels beneath the city. The second was upon discovering that Southerners took poorly to thievery, especially when the thief was almost within their grasp. There had been no third time.

A bird chittered, high above the press of people; Jewel looked up to see its bright blue breast. Its wings were a fan of green and gold; it was out of season, she thought, to be looking for a mate—but it must be a male, for it was lovely and not a little showy. She smiled up and whistled at it; it was high enough, on the courtyard walls, that it could look down without fear at this intrusion. And then there was no time for birds, or even passersby.

Something was wrong.

Jewel froze, her hand on the brass rails at the side of the broad flat stairs that led into the great hall. The sun was on her hair, her neck, her back—but she was cold, as if daylight had been suddenly denied her. Devon's back—red-shirted and embroidered—receded; before she could find voice to call him back, the market crowd surged around her and he was lost to sight. Very little stood still this close to the market authority.

Gritting her teeth, she shook her hair; something in it jangled—a bit of golden chain or net. She slid her hand into the pocket, deep and open, of her skirts. Beneath it, skin and a dagger strapped to her thigh. Devon had insisted on it. She was grateful.

She took the steps slowly, as if remembering with each step how to walk; she moved with the crowd, using each passing back as a small wall or a shield. Then, aware of how much like a nervous thief it made her appear, she relaxed and once again took the stairs in a jaunty—even an insolent—way. But it hurt to enter the building.

The merchant authority was a towering great hall with a floor that was open to the three-story ceiling above. Two galleries overlooked the vast majority of the crowd that came to the authority as they milled about making their deals, arguing for their concessions, and seeking authority witnesses to finalize contracts and commission statements. Framing the hall were the wickets and offices at which most of the day-to-day affairs of the market were decided.

Each market in Averalaan had a market authority, but none so well-guarded or so officially watched over as this; this market dealt with all manner of foreign coin and foreign custom, and the Crowns felt it important—or so it was said—to keep an eye on the foreigners' affairs.

Which was why, Jewel reminded herself, as her grip around the handle of her knife tightened, the hall was so full of guards. There were market authority guards, there were four magisterians, and there were any number of privately hired guards in the livery of the nobles who paid them. Private guards were always the big risk, especially if they were Annagarian; you didn't cross them if you didn't want to wind up under the wheels of a passing wagon.

But it wasn't the guards that made it so hard to breathe. Something was wrong; something almost as bad as the feeling she'd gotten when she'd first laid eyes on the Rath that wasn't. She backed up against the central pillar of the north half of the hall; the stone at her back was cold, but it was a comforting cold, a certain hardness, and using it to guard her back, she began to look for Devon.

He found her first, coming in to the side just at the edge of her vision. His forehead was creased and his lips were turned slightly down in as much of a frown as he ever showed her. One day, she was going to push him into a real display of something—and she'd probably regret it, at that—but not today.

“I've been waiting for you,” he said lightly. “Come on.”

The rings clipped to her ears jangled as she shook her head doorward. His brows went up slightly in question, and then his color darkened. He caught her wrist, and a few of the people to either side looked askance at them before placing them as both Southern and a couple.

“We don't have time for this,” he said, and pulled her farther into the hall.

“Something's wrong,” she said. The two words were forced, and they were the first that she had spoken aloud since she'd entered the halls. He started to reply, but she lifted her hands to cover his lips. Her arms were covered in a fine nubble of little bumps, and her hair looked as if she were caught in the center of a storm before Reymaris' lightning found its target.

She covered his hand—the hand on her wrist—with her own, and pulled him suddenly to the side, to the wickets, already crowded, that housed the money-men who dealt with foreign coin and writ.

The chest plate of a guard caught her left shoulder, and the guard snapped out a surly warning, raising a mailed fist in her direction. Devon, righting himself like a cat, broke into fluent Annagarian, and apologized for the wayward temperament of his young—and new—wife. The guard said something to make Jewel's cheeks burn, but they didn't; they were pale.

Devon stopped and stared at Jewel and then his expression changed. He smiled, although the smile was one that occupied his mouth and the corners of his eyes,
not the eyes themselves, and let her draw him away from the great hall's center. He signaled to the door, and then, tugging her into his arms, whispered, “Should we leave?”

She shook her head, no. It was too late for the doors.

Devon pulled her into an embrace that brought scorn or amusement from those close enough to see it. Her eyes were to the wall, and his to the doors, when the crowd began to stir slightly. He whispered a ten-word string of invective into her ear and then did what he could to still her trembling.

She wanted to ask what it was that was happening at her back; he knew it, or if he didn't, knew better than to keep her in ignorance. He said two words, and the words rang in her ears like the curse of the Queen of Night. “Patris Cordufar.”

• • •

Patris Cordufar was an important merchant; arguably the most important within the foreign market. His merchant-lines traveled directly to the heart of Annagar, returning with spices, incense, and the gems of the Southern mines. The gems, unworked, usually went to the guilds, to return South—but not always; there were rare stones with reputedly unique properties that were sought by less mundane professions than that of jewelsmith.

Still, the Lord was a rich man, having continued in the tradition of his father before him, and he was feared. Devon ATerafin knew that fear to be justly held. He had met Patris Cordufar three times—each at court—and he did not trust him. Of course, he trusted very few of the patriciate; he was Astari, and the Kings' safety demanded that vigilance be kept in all things.

He cursed inwardly and took care to pull Jewel as far from the wide bank of steps as possible, for it was there that Patris Cordufar appeared to be headed with his sizable entourage. Voices began to dim the sound of the guards' lock-step; the merchants and their followers returned to their daily business.

Devon smiled and stepped briskly toward the easternmost wicket to do the same. Then he stopped and very gently pried Jewel's fingers from his wrist. Her hand was white, and her lips so pale they were almost gray. She was afraid—no, terrified. He knew the signs of it well enough by now.

But she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, shaking or no, and then she straightened her belt and forced her lips into a shaky smile. The cascade of golden rings that caught her lobes captured the light as well; her determination, seen as it was through a layer of fear so thick it could almost be tested, made her striking, even beautiful.

She would make the Astari proud, if she were trained and schooled well. And if, he thought, grimacing, she could be pried from The Terafin's service.

They approached the wicket, and Devon removed a curled scroll from the swath of blue cloth across his chest. The wicketeer looked down the bridge of a
narrow nose and then started to speak Annagarian without the slightest trace of accent. Devon made the switch with ease, following the flow of syllables as if the language were his first. It was supposed to be, after all.

They spoke of exchange and exchange rates, and Devon made it clear that the amount offered was nothing short of robbery; this much, the wicketeer expected—enough so that he carried on his end of the curiously flat argument with a yawn and a look of ennui that might have been annoying or even condescending in different circumstances.

“That isn't even an offer,” Jewel broke in, as the wicketeer announced his figures yet again, “that's theft. Or isn't our gold good enough for the likes of you?” Her dark eyes narrowed into a curious mix of ice and fire. “You're Voyani.”

The wicketeer nodded as if he had no neck to speak of.

“And you would do this to your own? Have you so forgotten yourself that you've sold all your honor to those foreign lapdogs?”