All That Glitters (12 page)

The sun was rising, pink light spilling across the calm waters of the harbor. Above, the calls of sailors and the cries of seagulls began to fill the early morning air. In the distance a spirit engine wailed its way out of its berth. Ships rang their bells, and the harbor, virtually dead a few moments before, was slowly coming to life.

It was in this early dawn light that Brana pointed out the boat Andolon had taken from the dock. It was tied up to a gilded, polished abomination of wood and lacquer, with four big masts and a bowsprit so elaborate, Artus worried that the figure of the selkie clinging there might actually jump down and come after them. The ship was longer and taller and broader than any they'd seen so far, but it had more of the look of a floating palace than a ship built for the sea. On its back side (stern?) were written the words
Argent Wind
.

Artus looked at Brana, and Brana nodded enthusiastically. Taking a deep breath, Artus pushed them off the next vessel and made directly for the big ship. “If anybody talks to us, let me do the talking, okay?”

Brana nodded and yipped his agreement.

“No gnollish either! And stop sitting like that—­stick your legs out in front of you and sit like a human. Pretend.”

Brana frowned, slowly dumped himself on his arse and stuck his legs out in front of him like a human sitting down. In that position he was nearly passable as a real person. If only he'd stop sniffing the air.

The
Argent Wind
looked even more ostentatious the closer they got to it. Artus spied gold fittings on almost every part of the ship, from the spokes of the ship's wheel to the knobs on the balustrades. The windows, which ran along the entire length of the vessel rather than just at the back, had the strange, oddly still translucence that indicated mageglass. There were two men on deck, both dressed in the same stiff lace ruffs, colorful red-­and-­yellow livery, and gleaming steel helmets they had seen in the skiff. They stood at attention, barely sparing Artus and Brana's little boat a look, though Artus got the sense they were more alert than they appeared. Of Andolon, there was no sign.

“Excuse me?” Artus twisted his head to see the face of a man with a thick moustache and a crystal eye above them. He had poked his head out of a porthole. “Are you in need of assistance?”

Artus looked at Brana, only to find Brana looking at him the exact same way. Artus shrugged. “Uhhh . . . we lost an oar.”

The mustachioed stranger nodded as though this was the least surprising thing in the world. “Stay right there.”

Artus clung to the side of the
Argent Wind
. “What do we do now?” he hissed at Brana.

Brana let his tongue hang out. “Tricky tricky!” He nodded, as though that was somehow useful information.

A second later a rope ladder unfurled over the side of the big ship, landing quite near their little boat. The man's voice echoed from somewhere above, though they couldn't see him. “Climb aboard, please!”

Artus looked at the ladder—­it was a trap. It had to be a trap. Right? What if Andolon had seen them stealing the boat and knew he was being followed? If they climbed up, they could be captured. Of course, if they
didn't
climb up, they might just float out to sea. Even if they
did
get back to dry land, Tyvian might be pissed if they didn't capitalize on this opportunity to investigate.

While Artus was still mulling this over, Brana climbed the ladder. “Wait!” Artus scowled. “Idiot gnoll.”

Artus followed him. The deck was broad and spotlessly clean. Up close, the guards had the sun-­browned, spotted complexions of sailors more than soldiers, but their garb was no less impressive. Artus found himself standing before a small, potbellied man in expensive velvets and a lot of gold chains. His bearing was stern and professional—­something like that of an accountant or government minister. His crystal eye shone in the dawn light like a piece of ice. He put a hand on his stomach and another behind his back and gave them a shallow bow. “I am Ito DiVarro. Pleased to meet you.”

“Artus. Just Artus.” Artus extended a hand to shake.

DiVarro ignored the hand and motioned toward a pair of liveried guards. “These gentlemen will escort you below. Mr. Andolon would like to speak with you.”

Artus eyed the men suspiciously. “Aren't you coming?”

DiVarro shook his head. “I already know what you are going to talk about and I am very busy. If you'll excuse me . . .”

Artus nodded slowly, trying to look confused. “Who is this Andolon guy anyway?”

DiVarro shrugged. “The man that you followed from the Cauldron this evening, of course.”

Artus's breath caught, but before he could ask any follow-­up questions, a rough hand grabbed him by the elbow and escorted him away. They went down some stairs and a hatch was closed behind them, to Brana's soft whimper. It was the boom of the wooden hatch over their heads that finally settled it for Artus. “Brana,” he whispered, as they were escorted down a narrow corridor. “I'm pretty sure we're prisoners.”

 

A
rtus and Brana were led to a sumptuously appointed room that had to occupy a full third of the length of the huge ship and was probably two decks tall, assuming it all hadn't just been Astrally expanded—­something that Artus had grown so used to that he hardly even reflected upon. It was done up as an audience chamber for some kind of royalty, though he didn't see any coat of arms displayed anywhere that would have indicated as much. The floor was carpeted in plush vermillion wool, save for the center of the room, which was tiled in white alabaster around a fountain that bubbled pure freshwater from the mouths of carvings of full-­breasted, pointy-­eared selkie women. This fountain was set between two sweeping staircases, also carpeted, with gold-­lacquered balustrades carved in the elaborate shapes of other nautical beasts—­great eels, serpents, and kraken. Along the walls, mageglass windows gave a grand view of the harbor; above, skylights filtered the dawn sun through unlit crystal chandeliers.

As Artus and Brana gaped at this opulence, Andolon appeared and descended one of the stairways. He had changed his lacy, ostentatious attire for clothing somehow even more lacy and so bedecked in jewelry so that he sparkled to outshine the stars. His golden doublet was studded with diamonds, his hands flashed with gemstones, and his long cape was embroidered with even more glittering things. He proceeded down the stairs on his four-­inch heels with all the haughty confidence of a king arriving at a party in his honor.

“Ah!” he said to them. “My young guests! How good it is to see you again!”

Artus managed a half-­graceful bow. “Milord.”

“Yeah” Brana added, wiggling his hips.

Andolon waved an emerald-­studded hand at them. “Pish-­posh! Call me Gethrey, yes? Any friends of Reldamar are friends of mine!” He motioned to a trio of thick Kalsaari-­style cushions that had been set out by a few servants. “Won't you sit down?”

Artus sat. Brana turned in place three times and then sat on the floor. “Gethrey” gave him a deadpan look for a moment, and then focused on Artus. This close, Andolon looked unusually young—­maybe in his mid-­twenties, if that—­but Artus knew that couldn't be right. He realized, suddenly, that he was being looked in the eye. Like a man. Like an equal. He squared his shoulders and focused on keeping his voice from cracking. “So, what do you want from me, milord?”

“Gethrey, please.” Andolon clapped his hands and three women entered the room bearing bowls full of fruit. Artus caught a glimpse of enough female leg to make his brain reorder all his current priorities into watching the three beauties saunter across the unusually large floor. They were wearing gowns with slits up the side practically to their hips and necklines practically to their navels, and had pinned to their faces broad smiles full of white, perfectly rounded teeth. One of these incredible creatures—­a woman with dark curly hair and eyes of onyx—­knelt beside Artus, the bowl of fruit under her arm. She smiled and nodded a greeting.

It was at this point Artus realized that Andolon had been talking to him this entire time. “ . . . and so you see that I am not, unfortunately, a lord of any kind.”

“I'm sorry—­what?” Artus forced himself to snap his attention back to Andolon, who himself had another dark-­haired beauty kneeling beside him. Trying not to look at her and instead meet the gaze of a skinny man with blue hair and diamond earrings was enough to almost cause him physical pain.

Andolon shrugged. “My family ran out of money, Artus—­that's what I'm trying to tell you. Unlike in other realms, the nobility of Saldor essentially
buy
their titles. I had to build up all this,” he motioned to their environs, “on my own.”

Artus frowned, eyeing the sheer ostentation of the room.

Andolon laughed. “Hard to believe, I know. Want to know my secret?”

Artus shrugged, trying to feign indifference. “Sure, I guess.”

The Saldorian held up three fingers and ticked them off, one by one. “Motivated. Self. Interest. I learned a long time ago that if you look out for yourself first—­if you follow your own heart, if you seek your own goals—­nothing can stop you.”

Artus snorted. “Money helps.”

“Money
is
motivated self-­interest, Artus. It's the same thing. You know who has money? The ­people who want it the most.” Andolon shrugged. “That may sound cruel, but . . . well, life is pretty cruel, wouldn't you say? But, of course, you know all this, don't you? Tyvian is a pioneer of such thinking, isn't he?”

Artus grunted. “You can say that again.”

Their conversation was disturbed by a muted squeak and the clatter of a metal bowl on the deck. Artus turned to see Brana with his head inside the bowl of fruit, wolfing it all down in giant bites. His female servant stood over him, frozen in place and so pale she looked ready to faint, but her smile still affixed where it had been when she entered. Artus, catching Andolon's skeptical eye, said, “He's the muscle, I'm the brains.”

Andolon chuckled at that. “Would you care for a grape?”

Artus blinked and looked over at the bowl of fruit (and
only
the bowl of fruit, he warned himself). “Umm . . . sure. I guess.”

The serving girl picked a grape and dangled it before his mouth. In a thick Illini accent, she purred, “For
you
, my knight.”

Artus looked at her, just to confirm that this was actually happening. She kept smiling and nodding, those dark eyes fixed on his face. Cautiously, he opened his mouth. The girl placed the grape inside and Artus chewed. They were ripe and just the right mixture of sweet and tart. It was, arguably, the best grape he had ever had.

Andolon was watching him, smiling the whole time. “They're from Rhond.”

“Uhh . . . the girls?”

“The grapes, Artus.” Andolon opened his own mouth to have a grape placed inside. “Seedless—­did you notice that? A country abjurer will go around to various vineyards, warding off the development of seeds from the vines the viticulturist designates to produce table-­grapes.”

Artus didn't take his eyes off the Illini girl. She offered him another grape. He ate it. He found himself unable to relax on his cushion, but also wholly unwilling to move. “Uh-­huh.”

“Had enough grapes?” Andolon asked.

Artus nodded. The women withdrew, and suddenly Artus felt like he could breathe again. He turned back to Andolon to see that he was being offered a flute of champagne from a servant in a silver wig whom he did not hear enter. He took it. Brana got one, too.

“Thanks!” Artus said. He sipped his champagne—­it was fruity and bubbly and tickled his tongue. He liked it. He liked drinking it. Hell, he liked being
offered
it. He was enjoying this—­it was a feeling of . . . of control, of self-­importance. Was this what Tyvian felt like all the time?

“Sorry about following you and everything,” Artus heard himself saying before stopping himself. Wait—­was that a good idea?

Andolon shook his head. “Not at all, not at all—­I was counting on it. The fellow you met up on deck—­DiVarro—­he's a Verisi augur. Do you know what that is?”

Artus shook his head. “No.”

“It is a mage, actually—­a staff-­bearing mage who attended the Arcanostrum and earned his staff with the endorsement of the Baron of Veris with the understanding that said newly minted mage would return to Veris and serve the baron. They are among the most talented augurs in the West. You have no idea the lengths I had to go to in order to secure his employment—­scandalous amounts of money were spent, let me assure you.”

Artus looked over at Brana. The gnoll-­boy was lapping his champagne out of the flute at a steady, flapping rhythm. “Brana . . .” he hissed, “cut it out!”

“Anyway,” Andolon went on, without stopping, gesturing with his own champagne flute in broad arcs, “the point is that I knew you were coming—­because of DiVarro,
I know everything
before it happens. Pretty special, eh? So, I set up this little reception. I wanted a chance to speak with you alone.”

“Just what, exactly, are we supposed to be talking about, then?” Artus leaned back and tried to relax, but he still felt on edge. Something about this, nice as it was, seemed . . . off.

Nah,
he told himself,
that's just Tyvian talking—­he's made you bloody paranoid.

“To be honest, Artus,” Andolon sighed heavily, “I'm worried for Tyvian. I'm worried that he's back in town—­he's taking an awful risk being here, you know.”

Artus laughed. “I know—­I've been telling him that for weeks!”

Andolon grinned and leaned forward on his cushion so that his hands were on his knees. “As well you should! You and I, Artus, we're some of Tyvian's only friends, right? We've got to do what's best for him, don't we?”

Artus arched an eyebrow. “I guess so.” He checked on Brana—­he was curled up in his cushion, fast asleep. “What do you mean?”

Andolon shrugged. “Look, Artus—­Tyvian won't listen to me, and I bet he won't listen to you either.”

“Damn straight.”

“You know what he
will
listen to, though?” Andolon grinned.

Artus shrugged. “No, what?”

Andolon held up three fingers. “Motivated. Self. Interest.”

Artus frowned. “What, you're gonna . . . bribe him?”

“Not
me,
Artus—­
we.
We are going to bribe your friend into listening to sense, and then all of us are going to wind up filthy, stinking rich. We'll be drinking champagne and eating grapes from the hands of pretty girls for the rest of our days—­hell, we'll go on a cruise, see the world. How does that sound?”

Artus cocked his head. “Oh yeah? And what do
I
gotta do? Run errands? Carry stuff? Pretend to be your manservant or something?”

Andolon laughed. “Artus, that's the beauty of it—­all you need to do, my boy, is sit back, relax right there with your little friend, and just wait for Tyvian to come to you.”

Artus knew something about this seemed wrong, but he was damned if he could figure out what it was. He shot Andolon a big grin. “So . . . does that mean I can get some more grapes?”

“I
still think we should find them. They could be hurt.” Hool growled, clutching a paper fan as though it were a creature that needed throttling. Her nostrils flared at the perfumed interior of the fine Saldorian tailor shop. Had she not been wearing her shroud, Tyvian supposed her ears would be plastered back across her head.

“I told you, Hool—­they need their space,” Tyvian said while examining himself in the mirror—­a new doublet, breeches, fine silk shirt, a powdered wig, cane, shoes. He was a vision in gold and burgundy. “No cape? Are you certain?”

The tailor nodded slightly, smoothing one side of his handlebar moustache. “Yes, sir. Capes are out of fashion for the summer. Were it autumn, well . . .”

Tyvian nodded. “Very well, very well. I will eschew the cape, though the doublet is tight about the shoulders.”

“I don't like it,” Hool went on. “Brana is too little. Artus is too stupid.”

“I could let it out. It would only take perhaps an hour . . .” The tailor pursed his lips and whipped his measuring tape from his neck.

Tyvian relaxed his shoulders to let the tailor do his work. “Hool, I know more or less exactly where they are and I strongly suspect I will be seeing them later on today. You smother them too much.”

Hool scowled. “Where are they? Do not lie!”

Tyvian smiled at her. “They're on a boat in the middle of the harbor somewhere.”

Hool's eyes practically leapt from her skull. “My Brana would never go on a boat!”

The tailor placed his index finger on Tyvian's shoulder blade with steady, insistent pressure but paused before making a mark with a piece of chalk. “You wish it tailored for dueling, yes?”

Tyvian looked over his shoulder and caught the man's eye. There was no judgment there, no ridicule—­he was a man tailoring a customer, nothing more. That he knew who his customer
was
didn't matter. Tyvian grinned. “No time today, I'm afraid. On all the others, though, tailoring for dueling is a must. Oh, yes, and one doublet—­the black one with the long sleeves—­treat that to be fire resistant.”

Hool managed to collect herself, though her fan would never be the same. “Why are they on a boat?”

The tailor nodded as he made some notes on a pad of paper. “Might I suggest fireproofing, sir? No flame will catch—­assuming your account can bear the extra expense.”

“No, no—­resistant. I want it to burn, just not me.” Tyvian gave him a wink. The tailor did not react.

“Answer me!” Hool snapped.

“Because on the water is the only place criminals can safely practice their trade in Saldor.” Tyvian sighed as he swung his arms in his doublet from side to side—­yes, totally unsuitable for dueling. If a fight was going to happen today, he hoped his opponent had the good form to let him take it off first.

The tailor completed his note-­taking, apparently hearing none of their conversation. “How do you intend to pay, sir?”

Tyvian produced his family signet ring and waved it in front of the tailor's nose. “I'll wear the clothes out, thank you. Send the rest to Glamourvine.”

The tailor stared at the ring for a moment as though mesmerized. Had there been any doubt about Tyvian's identity before, it was now dispelled. The man recovered himself and favored Tyvian with a stiff bow. “The Reldamars are always welcome in my shop, sir.”

Tyvian grinned. “Then you and I, sir, are likely to become fast friends.” He belted on Chance in a brand-­new belt and scabbard that was a very fetching gold-­studded number of Eddonish make. While he didn't technically
need
a scabbard for his mageglass sword—­he could always “banish” the blade back into the hilt until he needed it and summon it again with a word—­a fine sword on the hip sent certain messages to onlookers that he wanted delivered, today in particular. Satisfied with his ensemble, he trotted out to the street.