Page 419

TRUCES

A UTUMN RAIN WAS pattering against the windows of Ronica’s bedroom.

She lay still for a time, listening to it.

The fire had burned low during the night.

The chill in the room contrasted almost pleasantly with how warm she was beneath the blankets.

She didn’t want to get up, not just yet.

Lying in a soft bed, between clean linens and under a warm quilt, she could pretend.

She could go back to an earlier time, and fantasize that any day now the Vivacia would dock.

She would meet Ephron as he came striding down the wharf.

His dark eyes would widen at the sight of her.

The strength of his first hug had always surprised her.

Her captain would catch her up in his arms and hold her tight as if he would never let go of her again.

Never again.

Despair washed through her. By an effort of will, she let it pass.

She had survived this grief; from time to time, it still ambushed her with its pain, but when it did, she reminded herself that she had survived it.

Nevertheless, she found herself irretrievably awake.

It was very early, the clouded dawn barely touching her windows.

What had wakened her?

She had fleeting memories of horseshoes clattering on the drive, and the sound of a door flung open.

Had a messenger come? It was the only reason for such sounds so early in the morning.

She rose, dressed hastily without disturbing Rache, slipped out into the dim hallways of the quiet house and padded softly down the stairs.

She found herself smiling grimly. Malta would be proud of her.

She had learned that the edges of the stairs were less likely to creak, and how to stand perfectly motionless in the shadows while others passed unnoticing.

Sometimes she would sit in the study and pretend to doze, to encourage the servants to gossip where she might overhear them.

She had found a pleasant spot under the study window where she could feign absorption in her needlework, until the worsening autumn weather had put an end to that ruse.

She reached the ground floor and stole quietly through the hall until she was outside Davad’s study.

The door was shut but not quite latched.

Stepping close, she put her ear to the crack.

She could just discern a man’s voice. Roed Caern?

Certainly, he and the Companion had been keeping very close company of late.

Scarcely a day went by when he was not closeted with her.

Initially, Ronica had blamed that on his involvement in Davad’s death.

However, everyone else seemed to regard that as resolved now.

What else had brought him to Serilla’s door at such an hour and in such haste?

The Bingtown Council’s consideration of Davad’s death was concluded.

Serilla had proclaimed that by the Satrap’s authority, she found Davad’s death due to misadventure and that no one was responsible.

The Satrapy, she announced, had decided there was not enough evidence to prove Davad a traitor to Jamaillia.

For this reason, his niece would inherit his estate, but Companion Serilla would continue to occupy Restart Hall.

His niece, would, of course, be suitably compensated for her continued hospitality, in a timely fashion, after all civil unrest had been resolved.

Serilla had made a great performance of this pronouncement.

She had summoned the heads of the Council to Davad’s study, fed them well on delicacies and wine from Davad’s cellar, and then read her conclusion aloud from a scroll.

Ronica had been present, as had Davad’s niece, a quiet, self-possessed young woman who had listened without comment.

At the close of the proceedings, the niece had told the Council that she was satisfied.

She had glanced at Roed as she spoke. Davad’s niece had had little reason to be fond of her uncle, but Ronica still wondered if the woman’s response had been purchased or coerced by Roed.

The Council had then declared that if the heir was satisfied, they were content also.

No one except Ronica seemed to recall that it left the blemishes on her family’s reputation intact.

No one else had frowned at the idea that Davad’s supposed treason had been to Jamaillia rather than to Bingtown.

It left Ronica feeling oddly isolated, as if the rules of the world had shifted subtly and left her behind.

Ronica had expected Serilla to turn her out of the house as soon as the Council agreed to her findings.

Instead, the woman had emphatically encouraged Ronica to stay.

She had been overly gracious and condescending as she said she was sure Ronica could help her in her efforts to re-unite Bingtown.

Ronica doubted her sincerity. The real reason for Serilla’s continued hospitality was what Ronica hoped to discover. So far, that secret had eluded her.

She held her breath and strove to catch every word. The Companion was speaking now. ‘Escaped? The message said escaped?’

Roed’s reply was surly. ‘It didn’t need to.

Only so many words will fit on a message scroll on a bird’s leg.

He is gone, Companion Kekki is gone and that girl with them.

If we are lucky, they all drowned in the river.

But remember the girl is Bingtown-raised, and the daughter of a sea-faring family.

Chances are she knew her way around a boat.

’ He paused. ‘That they were last seen in a small boat cries to me of conspiracy. Does not it all seem a bit strange to you? The girl went into the buried city and got them out, in the midst of the worst earthquake that Trehaug has suffered in years. No one sees them leave, until they are later seen from the dragon in a small boat.’

‘What does that mean, “from the dragon”?’ Serilla demanded, interrupting.

‘I have no idea,’ Roed declared impatiently. ‘I’ve never been to Trehaug. I imagine it must be some tower or bridge. What does it matter? The Satrap is out of our control. Anything can happen.’

‘I’d like to read that part of the message for myself.’ The Companion’s voice sounded very tentative. Ronica frowned. The messages came to Roed before they reached her?

‘You can’t. I destroyed it as soon as I’d read it.

There is no sense in taking the chance that this information will reach others in Bingtown any sooner than it must. Be assured this will not be our secret for long.

Many Traders keep close ties with their Rain Wild kin.

Other birds will carry this news. That is why we must act swiftly and decisively, before others clamour to have a say in what we do. ’

‘I just don’t understand. Why has it come to this?’ The Companion sounded distraught. ‘They promised to make him comfortable and safe there. When he left here, I had convinced him it was the wisest course for his own welfare. What would change his mind? Why would he flee? What does he want?’

Ronica heard Roed’s snort of laughter. ‘The Satrap may be a young man, but he is not a fool. The same mistake is often made of me. Not years, but the heritage of power is what suits a man to take command. The Satrap was born to power, Companion. I know you claim he does not pay attention to the undercurrents of politics, but he cannot be blind to your quest for influence. Perhaps he fears what you are doing right now: taking over for him, speaking with his voice, making his decisions here in Bingtown. From what I have seen and what you have said, your words are not what I expect the Satrap would truly say. Let us abandon all pretences. You know he has abused his power over us. I know what you hope. You would like to take his power as your own, and rule us better than he did.’

Ronica heard Roed’s boots on the floor as he paced about the room. She drew back a little from the door. The Companion was silent.

Roed’s voice had lost its charm when he spoke again.

‘Let us be frank. We have a common interest, you and I. We both seek to see Bingtown restored to itself. All about us, folk prate wildly of independence for Bingtown, or sharing power with the New Traders. Neither plan can possibly work. Bingtown needs to keep its ties with Jamaillia for us to prosper in trade. For the same reason, the New Traders must be forced out of Bingtown. You represent to me the ideal; if you remain in Bingtown, speaking with the Satrap’s voice, you can secure both goals for us.

But if the Satrap perishes, with him goes your source of power.

Worse, if the Satrap returns uncontrolled, your voice is drowned in his.

My plan is simple in form if not execution.

We must regain control of the Satrap again.

Once we have him, we force him to cede power over Bingtown to you.

You could reduce our taxes, get the Chalcedeans out of our harbours, and confiscate the New Traders’ holdings.

We have the most obvious bargaining chip of all.

We offer the Satrap his life in return for these concessions.

Once he has put them down on paper, we keep him here in honour.

Then, if the threatened Jamaillian fleet appears, we still have our game chip.

We show him to them, to prove there is nothing for them to avenge.

Eventually, we will send him safely back to Jamaillia. It all makes sense, does it not?’

‘Except for two points,’ Serilla observed quietly. ‘We no longer have the Satrap in our possession. And,’ her voice grew shrewder, ‘there does not seem enough profit in this for you. Patriot you may be, Roed Caern, but I do not believe you completely selfless in this.’