Stormseer (Storms in Amethir Book 3) Read online

  "Water, please. I've had enough wine." The thick, sweet aftertaste lingered on his tongue. The water cleared it, curling coldly through his mouth. It roused him from his exhaustion a little.

  He didn't want to go to bed, despite the headache. He wouldn't sleep well, and he was unwilling to drink enough to let him sleep well. He moved aimlessly around his rooms, looking at the spines of the books on his shelves, the small portraits of Izbel and Azmei that hung over the fireplace, the painting of the Governor's Palace at Rivarden reflected in Sky Lake. He drank a second glass of water.

  Finally he wrapped himself in a cloak and told Gendo to go to sleep. "I will go read what Master Tanvel left us. I will not need you until morning."

  ***

  They had chosen an unused office near Kho's office as the safest place to keep Tanvel's documents locked up. They were in a locked, reinforced wooden chest, and only Kho and Razem held the keys. The chest was hidden under a desk, and the door to the office was locked, again with keys only the two of them held. The door was locked when Razem let himself in, but he was unsurprised to find a lamp burning in the entryway. He slipped inside and shut the door behind him, turning the lock from the inside.

  "Why am I not surprised to find you here?"

  Emran was sitting on a cushioned bench, his lap awash in papers. He looked up when Razem spoke. "I have to find something. Tanvel knew who was behind this. He must have."

  Razem walked further into the office, trailing his fingers over dusty figurines and an inkwell that had long since gone dry. "Perhaps not. Perhaps he only knew more than we, rather than the whole."

  "Whatever he knew is here," Kho said stubbornly.

  Razem shook his head and sat in a leather armchair at one end of the desk. "Give me something to look through. I'll not sleep tonight. I might as well be useful."

  Kho frowned down at the collection of information for a moment, finally selecting a small, yellow book. "I haven't had a chance to look at this. I thought it best to work from the beginning forward, but if you come across anything unfamiliar, I should be able to provide background."

  Razem looked over the book. It was bound in tooled leather, the yellow a natural color rather than dyed. What sort of creature had once worn this skin? He flipped it open to the first page and was greeted by his sister's handwriting. His heart thumping faster, he glanced up at Kho. Had the general realized? But Kho had fallen back into his absorption with his own research. Mouth suddenly dry, Razem began to read.

  Day Three — Master Tanvel came down with a fever after our first day of surveillance, but he insists on maintaining the watch. The only concessions he makes are allowing me to record the notes and taking the hot baths and hot soups and possets without complaint. He sits on the rooftop opposite the Perslyn Trading House and shivers, but he has seen four of those we have noted before. We feel this is the ideal time to remove them from the equation.

  I had never been east of the mountains before. Tanvel has, but not this far north. The rain is very cold, though Tanvel says we are too far from the mountains for snow. For the sake of our operation, let us hope he is correct. Surveillance in snow would not be pleasant.

  The Patriarch's man here is one Sykri Perslyn. We dare not remove him; he appears to be the grand-nephew of the Patriarch, and sends reports to Meekin almost daily. Were we to replace him, it is unavoidable that the Patriarch would get news of the loss, and we cannot afford to have him on the alert. Not yet. Master Tanvel says we must be ready to deal with the Patriarch himself before we remove Sykri.

  Here his sister's handwriting ended and a thin, spiky hand took over.

  Day Six - Aevver takes liberties with her notes, but she is not incorrect. We have seen four messenger birds leave Perslyn Trading House in the week we have been here. Sykri will remain, for now, but I have dispatched Aevver to deal with two of the assassins we recognize from before. She should be gone long enough for me to enter the house and search for records. I wanted her well away before I tried this—she is headstrong, and at times it is easier to go around her than through.

  Razem had to suppress a smile. So Master Tanvel hadn't found his sister much easier to deal with. It was good to know that the new Azmei was no more tractable, even if she was calling herself Aevver and apprenticed to an assassin.

  Day Eight — I found the missing piece of the puzzle this night. Sykri Perslyn has been receiving money from someone in Tamnen. Someone of noble blood, from the language in the letter. Based on where I found it, the letter itself won't be missed, so I have tucked it into the pages of this book. The thrust is this: Unnamed member of unnamed noble house would be happy to spend a great deal of anonymous gold to prevent the treaty between Amethir and Tamnen. While the letter is undated, it is clear Dinnsan is in the recent past, based on the reference to the massacre. My conclusion is that shortly after said massacre, this noble house decided there should be no peace.

  Razem riffled the pages of the book but found no letter. He held the book spine up and shook it gently, but nothing fell out except something green. He reached down and picked it up. A dried flower—light purple, with seven petals. Rue. He twisted his lips and tucked the plant safely back into the pages. Wherever the letter had gone, it wasn't with the book.

  He went back to the record. From the way Azmei had described the climate, along with Tanvel's scattered comments, he decided they must be somewhere in the Long Coast. It seemed they were far to the north, even further north than Arisanat's lands. The Long Coast wasn't really one nation so much as an alliance of city-states and fiefdoms who maintained their alliances by means both fair and foul. He had heard assassination was a guilded trade in the Long Coast, but he had never given the matter much thought. Had the Perslyn family sent some of theirs to open a guild?

  He was so absorbed in the account that he looked up in surprise when the lamp started flickering. Emran looked up as well, his gaze going first to the lamp and then swinging around to meet Razem's.

  "I'll fetch more oil. I have a reserve jar here." He stood and stretched.

  "What time is it?" Razem said, rubbing his suddenly burning eyes.

  "Based on how much oil the lamp's gone through, I'd say it isn't dawn yet, but she's closer than midnight." Kho's voice was rough. "Should I brew some coffee? There's wood by the fireplace."

  Razem sighed. "Coffee. Gods bless you, yes."

  Kho chuckled and brought the oil over, then set about building a small fire. "Have you found anything interesting?"

  "Much that is interesting," Razem said, refilling the lamp. "But useful? I'm not sure. Some, at least. He discovered that gold was making its way from Tamnen to the Perslyn family in a Long Coast city. He didn't record which one, unless I missed it."

  "Gold that originated in Tamnen, or just passed through?" Kho asked.

  "A good distinction. Originated here, I'm afraid." Razem sat back, arching his back, and watched Kho strike the spark. He held his breath in sympathy until the spark caught.

  "But no certainty of who spent it?"

  Razem rubbed his face. What did Kho want to hear? "One of the nobility. Tanvel's sure of that much, based on the language of a letter that has been inconveniently lost. He doesn't say who it is, but at one point he made a list." He picked up the yellow book again and began flipping through the pages until he saw what he wanted.

  "'It is tied to their damned war, I am certain of it,'" he quoted. "And there's a list of those who profit from the war. House Birona is outfitting the military, and stands to lose a great deal of their trade if we make peace. House Daix is shipbuilders. With the conflict spilling out onto the sea as it does, it's possible they would be affected. There's half a dozen noble houses not of the Nine who trade with the Long Coast in one form or another. Including the Perslyns, in fact, since they ship their cloth to three nations aside from ours." He read the list of houses, then added six trading houses that had lost ships to the Strid. "I would think, though," Razem added as an afterthought, "that they would be glad to
have the war ended so they wouldn't lose any more ships. Profit should matter more than revenge to traders, shouldn't it?"

  He stopped talking and the room fell silent aside from the crackle of the fire. Kho was staring thoughtfully at the flames. He'd placed a kettle of water on the iron pivot arm and it was hissing. Razem's brain felt swimmy. He wanted coffee.

  "What do you think, Emran?"

  Kho pursed his lips but didn't look away from the fire. He swallowed, his brows drawn down. What dire thoughts did he have?

  Razem straightened in his seat. "Emran."

  Kho sighed. "What if it is one of the Families?"

  Razem stared at him. He could see Kho wasn't happy about saying it—but why suggest it at all?

  "It would be treason," Kho said softly.

  "I—no. No, I can't believe it. Why?"

  Kho looked away from the fire finally, letting his gaze meet Razem's. He didn't speak, just looked at him until Razem felt the heat rise in his cheeks. He felt as if he were being stupid, but what did Kho mean?

  "Which of them do you propose it is?" he asked, more crossly than he had intended. "You just watched all nine of them pay respects! Did you see any that you would name traitor?" Kho didn't look away. "Dragon's voice, Emran! These are my nobles you're talking about! My cousins!"

  "I do not propose it is any of them, Majesty." Kho's voice was a tired rumble. "But it must be someone. Who would benefit most from your father's death?"

  Razem had no answer for that. Too many people would benefit in some way. But none of them would benefit in a significant way, outside of treason. They fell silent. The kettle hissed and spat steam out of the spout. Kho hooked the pivot arm out of the flames and wrapped a cloth around his hand to pour the coffee in two carved wooden mugs. When they were both seated again, coffee in hand, he looked up at Razem, his gaze dark. His voice dropped almost to a whisper.

  "If they have tried to kill your sister, and succeeded in killing your father, Razem, what do you think they will do next?"

  Chapter 22

  Hawk kept staring at the boy. He had ridden his horse up, made that announcement about sewing his wound, and then he had dismounted and plopped on the ground. His gaze had gone blank again, staring at an empty spot in the sand. He'd said nothing since. About five minutes ago, he'd begun rocking slightly in place. The woman said the boy had visions, but even so...

  As for the woman, she was sewing Hawk's wound. She'd brought over a kit from her saddlebags and ordered him out of his robe and shirt. She started cleaning the wound with expert hands, then she'd clucked her tongue at him and pulled out a curved needle and sinew. Hawk had been injured often enough that he knew better than to argue with her. If she said it needed sewing, it probably did.

  She was awfully handy with a needle and sinew, come to that. Her head was bent over his shoulder, but he studied her as best he could. He'd already noticed she had a hard smile. This close, he could see a white line on her left cheekbone. It was obviously a scar from a dagger cut, but it had been healed well. She was obviously Tamnese and just as obviously a warrior. She was also pretty. Who was she?

  The object of his study didn't look up from his wound, but she must have felt his gaze on her. "You're welcome," she said.

  "Huh?"

  "For saving you." She took another stitch and Hawk tried not to wince.

  "Oh. Thank you."

  She snorted. "That sounded sincere."

  Hawk gave himself a mental shake. Just because they'd surprised him, so close on the heels of the surprise bandit attack, didn't mean he could forget himself. "I beg your pardon. I am most sincere, m'lady. I'm afraid you have me a bit off guard."

  She glanced up at him with a crooked grin. It was more than a little endearing, he realized, and found himself grinning back at her. She looked down again and took another stitch.

  "My name is Jacin."

  She flicked a glance up. "Aevver. He's Yar."

  Hawk glanced over at the boy, who was staring into space. "He...He's all right?"

  "I told you, he has visions." She tugged the next stitch too hard and they both swore. "Sorry. I've gotten used to them."

  He frowned down at the dark curls that swung across her cheek. "What are you two doing traveling alone in bandit territory?"

  She glanced sharply at him and took another stitch. "He's going to Rivarden. I go where he goes."

  Hawk nodded. They were silent for the length of time it took her to take three more stitches. "What about you?" she asked finally.

  He gave her a blank stare.

  "You're traveling in bandit territory entirely alone. That doesn't seem like a good plan."

  Hawk shrugged with his good arm, and she hissed at him. He went still. "I have an assignment in Meekin, and have not the luxury for the canal."

  "Huh." She glanced at him, appraising. He wondered suddenly if she could hear the six years of speaking Strid in his voice. Would she recognize the accent if she heard it? Did she think him a spy?

  "There's your arm patched up. Try not to use it too much for the next week or so," she said. She cut the sinew and dabbed an ointment across the stitches. Then she wrapped a bandage around his arm and tied it off. When she was finished, she tied her medical kit closed and stood.

  Hawk found himself blinking after her as she went to the nearest bandit body and knelt next to it. "Ah. He's died after all," she said, and he realized that was the one he'd got in the gut. "Too bad. I had some questions for him."

  Sleeping gods, she was calm. He'd known plenty of women who were skilled fighters, but he wasn't sure if he'd ever met one as pretty and young as she seemed to be. "What are you doing?"

  She rolled the man to one side, slipping a hand inside his belt. "Might as well see what they have. It'll be of no use to any but the jackals out here."

  Hawk eased his arm back into his shirt sleeve. "Practical, if a bit gruesome."

  She shrugged.

  Hawk left her to it. He wanted to get his clothes back in place and clean his blades. When he felt a bit more like himself, he looked for her again. She'd made her way through half of the bodies. A stack of weapons lay to one side of the one-eyed man. As he watched, she pulled a quiver off the shoulder of one man's body. She stuck something in a pocket and moved to the next.

  Hawk wasn't sure how he felt about looting the bodies. It wasn't uncommon in warfare, and certainly these bandits had attacked him, rather than the other way around. On the other hand, he'd told himself he was through with war.

  That's all very well and good, but is war through with you? murmured a voice in the back of his mind. He shook himself and glanced at the boy again. Still watching something Hawk couldn't see, still rocking in place, though he'd started tapping the fingers of one hand against his thumb. He looked back at Aevver. She'd added two flasks to the stack of weapons and was staring down at a folded piece of paper. It crackled as she unfolded it. She could read, he saw, as she studied the paper. Her eyes narrowed as she read it. She glanced up at Hawk, and he found himself tensing. Her body language had suddenly become less friendly. She was standing over the woman. Lail, the one-eyed man had called her. Their leader.

  "These aren't bandits," she said.

  "What?"

  She folded the letter into her pocket and stood. She gestured around. "Their clothes are better than they look. The top layer is ragged, all right, but the shirts and trousers aren't. They have shoes, all of them, and good ones. Weapons that have seen fighting and care." She took a few steps closer to him, one hand dropping to the hilt of her sword. She didn't draw the blade, but Hawk knew she would in a moment if he moved wrong. He held very still as she stared narrowly at him. "Not to mention they've been paid a hefty sum to kill someone. Who are you?" she demanded.

  Hawk stared at her for a moment before transferring his stare to the bodies. She was right, now that he looked more closely at them. He hoped he would have seen it himself if she hadn't been here to point it out. Mercenaries, then. That wasn't a good s
ign. There weren't many people who could afford to send a band of mercenaries after him.

  Did Arisanat Burojan hate him so much he would pay to have him killed? But why?

  ***

  Yarro had begun to think he would never find the Voices when he heard the shouting. The Voices seized on it, shrieking in his head that he must save the man. So Yarro sent Aevver to save him. The Voices ripped his mind back to them as soon as he told her, and he saw the fight as it happened. A lone swordsman, fighting off bandits in ragged clothes. He wasn't aware of Aevver riding away from him, but he saw her when she arrived at the battle. She killed so efficiently, letting nothing stop her as she came to the man's defense.

  Who was this man? Why was he important to the Voices?

  YOU WILL NEED HIM. HE TASTES OF THE DESERT JEWEL. HE WILL AID YOU.

  When Firefoot carried him to the edge of the finished battle, Yarro struggled away from the Voices, and they let him go for a moment. He saw the man with his own eyes, saw the blood dripping from his right arm, the exhaustion in the man's stance, the wariness in his eyes. He liked the man, so he smiled.

  "Hello. Aevver can sew your wounded arm for you."

  Then, as quick as he'd slid from Firefoot's back, the Voices swept him back up, swirling around him, their words caressing his cheeks, teasing his hair, pulling at his clothes. He felt his body sit, then he was lost.

  SMELL THE BLOOD! LICK IT UP. EAT THE BODIES. WHY WASTE THE DEAD?

  Yarro's mind shuddered in revulsion, though he couldn't tell if his body did, too. We don't eat people. Maybe you do, but I don't. Humans don't.

  The slithery Voice cackled. HOW DO YOU KNOW? HAVE YOU EVER CROSSED THE SOUTHERN WASTES TO THE VERY TIP OF SLARDA?

  Stop it! Yarro commanded, wishing he could lift his hands to his ears and blot them out. It wouldn't work. It never worked.

  HUSH, said the Wise Uncle Voice. LEAVE HIM BE. HE IS DOING OUR BIDDING, AND HE IS DOING WELL. YOU ARE CLOSE, LITTLE BROTHER. DID THESE HUMANS ATTACK TO STOP YOU? WE FEEL YOUR APPROACH.