THERE WERE TWICE HEXANT bedrooms in Murnloim Wing, where the members of Great House Kovenor resided in ?elasdur. Esor was escorted to one of those lavish, unoccupied chambers. “Hexes,” Esor murmured at the sight of the room. Its arched roof dripped with flowers, painted glass windows glimmered with orange and cyan, and a central bed was canopied by vines. Artisans had sung the furniture into shapes resembling tree-spirits, flowing with natural growth patterns. A fountain poured from one wall to fill a wash basin. “I thought I was under arrest. This isn’t a prison.”
“Prisons take all forms,” said Dak.
“Such as being oathsworn?” asked Esor, not as politely as his mother would have liked.
Dak rubbed the mark on his hand. “There’s no difference between being oathsworn or bonded Dokàlvar in the Empire. You wear yet another prison around your neck willingly.”
The jostling rush up the stairs had shaken Esor’s Eternal Cross from underneath his collar. “My faith frees me.”
“The deadliest prison is the one where you choose to stay,” said Dak darkly.
“Enough of the dramatic.” Another staff member fluttered from behind a woven screen. Kuper wore his steward robes with Ralen’s flair for embroidered hems. The arch of paint over his eyes made him garishly cosmopolitan for the remote city setting. “Dak’s dramatics will escalate if you let him. Never let him go on about anything gloomy like that. Prisons, murder, death, etcetera.”
“I appreciate the advice, but—why are you undressing me?” asked Esor.
The steward’s hands made quick work of Esor’s fastenings, tossing aside overrobe, vest, and shirtsleeves. “You can’t dine with the Lord Mayor in this condition,” said Kuper, yanking Esor’s belt out of the loops. He glared when Esor tried to step away. “Don’t fight me, now. I’ve never lost a fight. I won’t lose against you.”
“But—”
“A belt,” Kuper muttered, yanking at the toggles. “Boots! Such lower-class clothing. Functional clothing.”
Esor defended the Heartbox and the Eternal Cross. “These stay.”
“So long as you hide the cross. The whole Great House holds a grudge against the Church—which you did not hear from me, mind. Now come along.”
There was no time for a proper bath, but Kuper scrubbed Esor hard enough with soap and cloth that his skin burned red. He replaced Esor’s clothes with robe and slippers, of all things—nothing Esor could have worn serving as his mother’s porter, nor when hiking to teach children in rural manors.
“A tailored fit with no fittings performed,” Esor marveled. “My mother would be impressed.”
“High praise from the son of Tasero an Amen,” said the steward.
“How is this done?”
“The Lord Mayor delivered your measurements,” said Kuper, raising more questions than answers.
Esor glimpsed himself passing a polished metal mirror. The robes were high-necked with a waist dropped lower than fashionable, much like the Lord Mayor himself wore. Esor couldn’t even see his slippers. He felt shorter wearing them, and he was already too short for an àlvar. Wearing so much black deprived his face of color. He could have passed for a Kovenor.
He was dazed upon arriving to a dining room in a solarium. The table was set for two with comfortable cushions for kneeling. A shiny decanter filled with wine caught the glow of distant braziers, ranged so the warmth was consistent. A maze of inset planters defined a path over an ivy-tangled bridge and under weeping branches.
Esor came to stand across from Corvin.
The Lord Mayor kneeled so that his robes engulfed the pillow. He was comfortable sitting straight-backed with a goblet of wine in one hand, somehow insolently lazy with flawless posture.
“Lord Mayor.” Esor bowed deeply and remained bent with his eyes upon his slippers.
“Sit,” said Corvin. “Pour yourself wine. We’ll not be attended for this conversation.”
Esor gazed mistrustfully at the plate of fruit, pastries, and thin-sliced meat. It looked delicious. He feared to touch it.
“This won’t be your last meal. I don’t need privacy to kill you,” said Corvin lightly.
Esor served himself. When the last of the attendants disappeared from the doorway, he took a drink of wine. He resisted the urge to grimace at its bitter flavor until Corvin was looking elsewhere.
“My liege,” began Esor.
“Eat while it’s hot.” Advice aside, Corvin seemed only interested in his wine. It was the same color as the trim of his collar, the cuffs on his sleeves. It stained the edge of his mouth violet. “Even the grapes here are soiled by the taste of Chaos. ?elasdur grows beautiful females and little else.”
Esor took a small bite of meat. It was wretched indeed, even cooked in fine spices and oils. “Did you come to ?elasdur for does?”
“My father often reminds me that I need a bride to oversee household matters in Set. Lady Kit?anve needs matches for her daughters.” Corvin refilled his goblet, already emptied. “How do Ilare’s studies progress?”
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“I wish I were doing better by Lady Ilare. It’s impossible to teach a science as complex as alchemy across a horde of keroterase.”
“That sounds like something a lad might say to get time alone with my fertile, unwedded sister.”
“I would be left alone with her as soon as I would a pit of vipers,” said Esor. He was so nervous that he lost control of his words. They kept coming. “Lady Ilare herself is pleasant, of course—I don’t mean to insult any of the High, much less a daughter of my benefactors’ House, and—well, if I can be honest, there is nothing to be gained for me worth the risk of misbehavior. I only wish for space, you see. I stumble over the keroterase. They block me with their arms. I cannot see what she does until mistakes are made. It might help if they were amiable to standing more...ranged around the room?” He trailed off at the end, realizing he was making vague broad gestures with his hands to the quiet amusement of the Lord Mayor.
“Noted,” said Corvin.
Esor grew more embarrassed and folded his hands on his lap. “Yes. Thank you.”
The Lord Mayor swirled his wine, smiling over the rim. “You have kept busy outside Ilare’s lessons by building friendships in the tower. You’ve ample time to take on more work.”
“Yes. Of course. Other duties as specified, as the contract said.”
“You were familiarized with stewardship by the legendary Amen Nikow?, were you not? Excellent. You should have a steward’s knowledge and a tailor’s eye. That information will tell you more about an individual than they will ever say aloud.”
“I am not renown for my perceptiveness,” Esor said.
“Any skill can be developed. Assuming that your mother testifies to a benign origin for the Heartbox, I have another task for you. I want you to serve me directly. Find Dwarrow sympathizers in the xilcadis.”
Any command would have settled over Esor with the weight of divine order: such was the debt Dokàlvar owed to the L?sàlvar Nam? favored. From the Lord Mayor who held his contract, this command descended as a noose.
Esor emptied his goblet of wine.
The Lord Mayor chuckled when Esor could not hide a grimace of distaste.
“Scared you, have I?” asked Corvin. ?Good. You should be scared.?
Esor picked up a wafer then set it down again without eating, dipping his fingers in the bowl of water to clean them. “Dwarrow sympathizers?”
“You’ve been invited to luncheon at every House in the city. You’ve befriended the unbonded Dokàlvar of ?elasdur, the wives of the Elders are fascinated by you, and I see you hold brew well enough to coax them with drink. Get them to talk. Tell me who lacks in loyalty.”
Esor thought of the maiden-of-the-garden spitting vitriol about the Magistrate. He thought about àstin an Galefar claiming he never went to the village, then carrying a dead hare to meet a midwife. He thought of a new tutor with a Heartbox and Dwarrow dreams. “I am at your service in any way, as we both well know, but I can only disappoint you in matters of espionage. I am a teacher, Lord Mayor. That’s for good reason. My mother failed to teach me weaving. My father despaired at how poorly I took to the logistics of stewardship. I’m useless outside of books.”
“We’ve sent soldiers to war with less training,” said Corvin. “You’ll do fine. Steady yourself, lad. Deep breaths.”
“Are you...trying to reassure me?”
“You seem to need reassurance. I did not bring you to ?elasdur to see you immediately killed. You can do what I have commanded. And you will, if you hope to survive this war.”
Esor had not known he was fighting one.
~
DWARROW HAD BEEN WAGING war against the àlvare for years, dogging the coasts and harassing ships in the deepest channels. They had few vessels their own. Hence the Warlord sailed on Geldur’s sea-tower. Boiling tanks turned Chaos to kirē, keeping them afloat and heating the air. It was there, in the belly of the Cursed Maid, that the Warlord made his demand: “Go north at the coast. We take ?elasdur.”
The Warlord wore only authority as armor in the sweltering belly of the Maiur sea-tower. He wore a skelt wrapped around his waist with its long tail flung over one shoulder. The exposed breadths of his shoulders were hairy and tanned.
“With Admiral Brynulf’s fleet in place, the northern straits remain too dangerous. He’ll obliterate me,” said Admiral Geldur.
“But we know at last the Heart of Tephra is in ?elasdur right now,” said the Warlord. “I will not miss this opportunity to strike.”
“Is it more important to loosen the Ildòrian grip upon our straits, or fulfill a personal vendetta?” asked Hornbull.
The Warlord snarled again. He rounded upon Hornbull with fists clenched.
“Peace, men.” Geldur rested his hand on the Warlord’s chest and fixed his commander with a firm look. Hornbull was fiery as the Warlord in his way—a Magus with Orkar blood—yet both were quelled by Geldur. “This is higher than àlvare and Dwarrow. What matters most is retrieving the Heart.”
“The Lord Mayor. Lord Mayor now. He grows in power as I scramble.” The Warlord spit upon the deck. “I only agreed to negotiate with the Magistrate when we didn’t know where the Heart was hidden. Now we do.”
“If you face Corvin Kovenor again, Warlord, he will take your life,” said Geldur.
The Warlord hung his head before the armor. The scarred lines of his back were taut, rippling with canyons and peaks built by years of crushing àlvar heads with his hammer. Anguish showed in the fists hanging heavy at his sides.
A new voice spoke. “I’ll go to ?elasdur myself.” Another Dwarrow slid down the ladder from the upper deck. Bonetaker was more diminutive than her leader, her garnet-studded beard sleeker, her muscles wirier. “I’ll debark at the peninsula and find my way to ?elasdur. Be sure to tell that Patrician I am coming swift. A three-month journey, no more.”
“I cannot send you to fight Corvin alone, my friend,” said the Warlord.
“Nor would I try to fight.” Bonetaker softened the Warlord’s muscles with a touch on his cheek. “I am not one to fight, but to influence. Let me seek the Heart. Trust I will do it without drawing a dagger.”
The Warlord remained unconvinced.
Geldur said, “Take Hornbull. His powers will be great in ?elasdur where Chaos taints the very air. Bonetaker will come to no harm in his care.”
“That will do,” said the Warlord. “We continue with our plan to retrieve the great krandryl and Chakora, leaving the Heart to Bonetaker.”
By morning, the Warlord was watching Bonetaker’s swoop retreat into the coastal mists. The hostile geometry of cliffs dwarfed the vessel. Pale-blue glints of Hornbull’s sorcery upon the prow were the last to vanish from view.
Men dwelled on lands of stark stone and sparse vegetation, where soil was tough, bogs were deep, and wood was scarce. Even the ravenous àlvar Empire didn’t want such a land, leaving the soft-skinned and short-lived Men to muddy about with their barbaric kingdoms. It was a safe place for Bonetaker to pass.
Uneasy, the Warlord said, “I neither know nor trust Hornbull.”
“I do,” said Geldur. He unwrapped the bandage from his hand. The vosaik bite was hot and red. He grunted when he splashed another tincture on it.
“He disrespects my cause,” said the Dwarrow.
“Hornbull need not grasp the enormity of our mission. We do. Without the Heart, the Mountainhomes will die.”
“Without the Mountainhomes, Ashenna dies,” said the Warlord by rote.
“I would not intercede if the stakes were less. But I am sensitive to the loss of the Prophet, just as you are. I mourn as you do. We will salvage the Heart so that it may go home.” Geldur rested an uninjured hand on the Warlord’s shoulder. The Maiur was grim-faced, but the wisdom of age radiated from his sympathetic gaze. “We will make sure your dead rest.”
