19: ORETH THE SNAKE

Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since Thurvishar D’Lorus retreated to Shadrag Gor to work on his notes

“So you were engaged to marry this Oreth person?” Kihrin asked.

“The Markreev’s second son, yes,” Janel answered. “But Oreth and I had very different ideas about my place in the relationship. I’m not a mare. I’m never going to be a mare.”

“And mare doesn’t mean … female?” Kihrin wanted to make sure he understood.

Nina laughed. “Not even a little. Mares stay at home and see to the house, yes, but they’re also farmers, teachers, caretakers, organizers. And stallions are the preening, prancing warriors circling the herd in case lions show up. Ask most stallions and they’ll tell you they’re in charge too while the mare who’s making sure everything gets done just laughs.”

“It’s not so simple,” Janel chided. “And not everyone is so labeled.”

“No,” Dorna agreed, “but you ain’t ever going to stay at home and raise the foals while your stallion mate goes off to war, and that’s a fact.” Dorna wagged a finger at Kihrin. “Something for you to remember.”

“Oh, not a problem,” Kihrin said, raising his hands. “As an old friend used to say, I only become romantically involved with those who can beat the pants off me in a fight.”

Ninavis turned to Janel. “This one might be okay.”

“Oh, thank you. Now that I have a stamp of approval from the grandmothers—”1 Janel rolled her eyes at Dorna and Ninavis before she turned to Qown. “It’s your turn.”

Qown cleared his throat and began to read.

Qown’s Turn. Atrine, Jorat, Quur.

Brother Qown felt lost by the time they reached the apartment granted to the Count of Tolamer and family. The city’s twisting passages and switchbacks formed a maze that confused anyone not familiar with the turns.

Plus, no one used the roads.

People never traveled down to the ground level unless absolutely necessary. These occasions included entering the city through the main gates or crossing over to the Green—the giant parklike space in the city’s center. Otherwise, everyone used the stairs, climbing the spiraling steps until they reached the bridges and thoroughfares on the third story (which would be the fourth story if anyone counted the ground level). These constituted Atrine’s true roads.

Count Janel stopped before a wooden door, identical to all the other wooden doors they had passed. While Dorna paused to light an old brass lamp, Janel pulled an ancient-looking key from her sallí cloak and unlocked the door.

She waited.

No one cried out. No one came to the door. No movement echoed from inside.

Janel opened the door and ushered everyone inside. They passed a reception hall and sitting area, the kitchen on the right, before heading down a main staircase.

Brother Qown bumped his shin on a low side table as soon as he left the stairwell. He fought the temptation to curse. Mare Dorna raised the lantern, illuminating spacious rooms. Brother Qown felt a small thrill to think the Theranon family had used these quarters for almost half a millennium, in an unbroken line since Atrine’s creation by Emperor Kandor himself.

Count Janel stood there and scanned the lower hall as if trying to determine if there had been intruders by studying patterns left in the dust. But finally, she shrugged and walked over to the built-in wardrobes along one wall of the main sitting room—delicate stone doors cut with patterned grilles. She opened each in turn, rummaged around, and then piled boxes before the cabinets.

“I’ll look downstairs soon as I’m done here.” Dorna started lighting the lanterns in the room.

Sir Baramon sat on a low stone bench. “This brings back memories.”

“Well, keep ’em to yourself,” Dorna snapped. “Now stop your sitting and help me out—”

Janel lifted a small metal box from a closet and held it close. “It’s fine, Dorna. I’ve found what we need.” She set the chest down on a table and opened the lid.

The box contained jewelry. Precious metal chains, a carved shell cameo, a jade brooch with matching hairpins, a carnelian pendant carved with a lion, a fire opal necklace, and a string of perfect dark pearls.

Janel sighed with relief. “I’m so glad they’re still here. I worried my grandfather had already sold them.”

“Why didn’t he?” Dorna asked. “Might have helped with the liens.” She’d stopped bickering with Sir Baramon when Janel announced her discovery; the jewels had distracted her from her errand downstairs.

“Because it would have been theft. These belonged to my mother. Now they belong to me.” She closed the box back up again and offered it to Dorna. “Would you and Sir Baramon sell these?”

Dorna blinked. “But you just said they belonged to your mother.”

“Jewelry isn’t what I need to remember about her.”

Dorna stared at her with bright eyes. Then she ducked her head and snapped her fingers at Sir Baramon. “Well, come on, then. Let’s go see if Gerios still buys as well as sells baubles from that shop of his.” She took the box and began to walk back up the stairs leading to the entrance.

“Don’t you snap your fingers at me, woman. Stop talking to me like I’m your lackey.”

“Oh, you should be so lucky.” Dorna snapped her fingers again. She turned to Janel and rapped her knuckles against the door in a pattern. “When we come back, we’ll make this sound. So’s you know it’s us.”

“Thank you, Dorna.” Janel turned back to sorting. She returned the boxes, shut the doors, and went to the next closet.

“Is there anything I might do to help?” Brother Qown asked.

Janel paused. She pointed to a desk pushed up against a wall. “There may be letters in there. Correspondence. Even a record of my grandfather’s liens would be more than I have now.” She smiled. “My creditors could say I owe any sum. I have no way to deny their claims.”

Brother Qown nodded and began to search through the drawers until he could stand it no longer.

“What happened on the bridge—”

Silence greeted his outburst. Brother Qown had just decided Janel wasn’t going to pick up his dropped sentence when she said, “You’re disappointed in me.”

“I just don’t understand. You interfered in Barsine…”

“I shouldn’t have. Barsine isn’t one of my banners. Someone would argue I had no right. They wouldn’t be wrong.”

“I just don’t—” His throat felt thick. “I don’t understand.”

“Is it so difficult?” She turned to face him. “You see children at play, being supervised by a parent. One child is being picked on by the others and has started to cry. What do you do?”

Brother Qown blinked. “I tell the other children to stop picking on them.”

“And what are you saying?”

He frowned. “I don’t … what do you mean? I’m saying children shouldn’t be allowed to bully each other.”

“No, you’re saying the child needs someone to protect them, and you’re also saying the parent isn’t doing their job.”

Brother Qown swallowed his exasperation. “Count, that comparison falls apart when the parent clearly isn’t doing their job.”

“Are they not? How do you know? Maybe your hypothetical child is the bully and the parent has encouraged a role reversal as a lesson on empathy. Maybe the child is prone to crying because they like the sweets their parents give them to make them stop. Maybe the child needs to learn to push back against bullying, because it’s not like bullying stops once we reach adulthood. You’ve come into the middle of a situation and made a snap decision and, further, made a snap judgment on how to fix matters. All you’ve done is prove your arrogance.”

“Arrogance? Me?”

She didn’t back down. “Is there not an arrogance in humility? An arrogance in healing and good deeds? Don’t you know—know in your heart—your pacifism and good works make you a better person than someone like Dedreugh, someone like me?”

“Dedreugh was a demon!”

“I’m a demon. What’s in a name? Maybe we shouldn’t be so quick to presume the automatic evil of monsters.”

Brother Qown choked on the heresy. “Count—”

“I agree a terrible event happened on the bridge. But if I had interfered, I would have proclaimed I knew better than the person in charge—Duke Xun.”

Brother Qown sighed and shook his head. “That analogy only works when you’re talking about Joratese. The duke isn’t affording the Marakori the same rights your people take for granted.”

Janel sighed and sat down on a box. Her gaze turned distant.

He paused his search to look at her. “Am I wrong, my count?”

“No, but—”

A noise from upstairs interrupted her. A noise which sounded like someone putting a key into a lock.

And there had been no knock, patterned or otherwise.

Janel stood, grabbed Brother Qown by the arm, and, before he could say anything in protest, pulled them both inside a closet. They crouched down behind the stacked boxes.

As the front door opened, Qown remembered they had left the lanterns lit, the containers open with their contents strewn. Anyone would notice someone had been searching for something. They would be discovered right away, betrayed by the priest’s heartbeat if nothing else.

“What—? By Khored, who’s been here?”

Brother Qown winced as he heard the voice. He hadn’t been in Count Janel’s service for long. However, he recognized the voice of Sir Oreth Malkoessian, the Markreev of Stavira’s youngest son. Also, formerly the count’s sworn fiancé.

“One moment, sir. Let me check.” The second voice sounded unfamiliar.

Brother Qown ducked lower as swift footsteps approached, followed by a closet door being slammed. Not, thank Selanol, the one where the count and he hid. He heard boxes being tossed about. If the newcomer searched both closets, he’d find them.

“I’m sorry, sir. They took the jewelry box.”

“Are you sure they kept it in that closet?” Oreth growled, his anger obvious.

“Yes, sir. I’m quite certain. It seems we have been robbed, although I can’t imagine who’d think anything was worth stealing in here.”

“You can’t, Kovinglass?” Oreth snapped. “Do you think perhaps your former liege’s granddaughter might have known about her own mother’s jewelry box?”

“She can’t be so stupid as to show her face here, sir,” Kovinglass said.

“I need that jewelry to pay my father’s interest rates!”

“Perhaps you can convince him to give you an extension?”

Sir Oreth scoffed. “I doubt it. He thinks it’s character building.”

“Yes, sir.” Kovinglass kept his tone neutral.

“He wants me to fail. He’d love nothing better than to see me crawl back to him.” Sir Oreth’s voice dripped with hatred. “Let the servants clean all this. Perhaps we can salvage something of value.”

“Am I interrupting?” A third voice spoke, a pleasant tenor with a western accent.

Metal plate and chain clanked. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“Pardon my rudeness. I seek the Count of Tolamer.”

“Again, I ask: Who are you?”

“Oh? My name is Relos Var.”

Silence. Brother Qown imagined the two men looking at each other in surprise. He could only guess at Janel’s reaction. This must be the man she’d met at Mereina.

I am the Count of Tolamer,” Oreth said.

Relos Var chuckled. “Are you now? Have you done something with your hair? I didn’t recognize you. Probably because you’re male and look nothing like Janel Danorak—”

“Her name is Janel Theranon.”

“Yes, that too. Lovely young lady. What do you call her coloring? Night-kissed? Fitting.”

“Janel is my betrothed,” Oreth corrected. “I’ll be Count of Tolamer soon enough.”

“No doubt she’s counting the minutes until that happy day.”2

“She’s not here,” Kovinglass said, “so perhaps you should leave.”

“Ah yes. I’m sure you’re right.” Footsteps walked to the stairs and then stopped. “But my pardon. I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. I believe we have a situation that may be mutually beneficial. I’d be remiss not to mention the opportunity.”

“Speak plainly,” Sir Oreth said. “What do you mean?”

The footsteps returned as Relos Var walked back. “Clearly, you’re a man who isn’t shackling himself to these quaint Joratese customs. Idorrá and thudajé are fascinating concepts, but a wise man uses all the resources at his disposal.”

“Choose your words carefully, old man.”

“If I’m wrong, then I apologize. I tried to reach a trade agreement with the old count, but he wasn’t interested. I can’t understand why; it would have solved all his financial woes. I thought his granddaughter might have been willing to consider my offer, but on hearing your own predicament…” Relos Var paused. “I’m sorry to waste your time. Good evening, gentlemen.”

The footsteps retreated once more.

“Wait,” Sir Oreth said. “What offer?”

“Oh, did you want to hear it?” Relos Var’s tone of voice made it obvious he was smiling.

“What—yes. That’s why I asked.” Sir Oreth might well have been grinding his teeth.

“I have a few friends who are looking to establish a mercantile route into Jorat and need a … let’s call it a safe harbor. Metaphorical, not literal.3 Tolamer Canton is well positioned. In exchange for preferential Gatestone access and your discretion, my associates are willing to provide a generous stipend to compensate you for your trouble.”

“A stipend?” Kovinglass spoke up. “When you’re asking us to break Gatekeeper bylaws? You’re going to make a fortune by avoiding royal tariffs.”

“I’m sure we can come to a suitable arrangement,” Relos Var replied. “If the late count had been willing to hear me out, all his financial problems would have been avoided.”

“I don’t remember the count ever mentioning you,” Kovinglass said. He sounded suspicious.

“Oh, I didn’t approach him when you were around. You’re a Gatekeeper, after all. Why would I make such an offer, only to see you run off to House D’Aramarin with my plans?”

“And it doesn’t bother you to tell me now?”

Relos Var chuckled. “Now I know you’re for sale.”

“How dare you—”

Qown heard scuffling and gurgling. He held his breath. He’d never met Kovinglass in person, but he knew the name; Kovinglass had been Tolamer Canton’s Gatekeeper. And also the man whose poor advice had put Janel’s grandfather in such dire financial straits.

Brother Qown thought this Relos Var person had picked the wrong target for his insults.

Then he realized he’d had it backward.

“Uh…,” Sir Oreth said. “Would you mind not killing my man? I need him.”

Something heavy fell to the ground.

“Thanks,” said Sir Oreth.

“Think nothing of it. But are you sure you need him? In my experience, a man whose loyalty may be purchased once with your metal may find it purchased a second time with someone else’s.”

Sir Oreth laughed. “Oh? And how do you buy loyalty?”

“Purpose, meaning, and appreciation,” Relos Var answered without hesitation. “My people aren’t loyal because of my coffers; they are loyal because of my cause.” He paused. “The coffers don’t hurt, though.”

Brother Qown started to understand why Count Janel thought this man the real threat.

The answer seemed to take Sir Oreth aback. “Where did you say you were from?”

“Most recently? Kazivar.”

A box creaked as Sir Oreth stood. “Let me extend my hospitality so we might discuss this further over dinner. I—” He paused. “The servants need to clean, put a fire in the oven. Might I suggest we retire to the Green? I know a fantastic tavern.”

“Nothing would please me more. Wake.” An impatient snap of fingers accompanied the last command.

Kovinglass said, “Whah, what? What happened? What just—”

“Relos Var and I are going to dinner. Clean up here while we’re gone.”

A long pause followed. Gatekeepers were not, after all, servants. They often acted as advisers, simply because their level of education made them well suited for that role. But first and foremost, they were mages who paid their dues to House D’Aramarin.

Kovinglass eventually snarled, “Yes, sir.”

Brother Qown prayed his thanks. As he did, Relos Var and Sir Oreth left. The room fell quiet. Brother Qown started to wonder if Kovinglass had departed with them, after all.

Then the Gatekeeper walked over to the closet where Janel and Brother Qown hid and threw open the doors.

Brother Qown almost shrieked but managed to stay silent as Kovinglass opened the top chest in a stack. The Gatekeeper rummaged through what might have been cloth. He stopped as someone opened the front door upstairs.

Brother Qown held his breath, hoping against hope Dorna and Sir Baramon hadn’t returned. Luck smiled on him.

“What kept you?” Kovinglass snapped. “We need fresh linens on the beds, and someone needs to clean the kitchen. It hasn’t been used in years. Get started!”

A chorus of “Yes, Master Kovinglass” rewarded his scolding; the house servants had arrived.

A woman said, “Would you care for tea, Master Kovinglass? I brought a pot from the castle along with steamed sesame buns. Sinon is setting up in the kitchen.”

“Yes. Oh yes.” Kovinglass’s annoyance seemed to melt at the suggestion of tea and fresh food. His volume lowered as he moved away from the closet. “Siva, what would I do without you?”

She laughed. “Go hungry and without tea, Master Kovinglass. Now get you gone. You Blood of Joras types are too important to be left with the sweeping. I’ll take over down here.”

Brother Qown frowned. The woman’s voice sounded familiar.

Kovinglass’s footsteps faded from the room, and a second later, Janel stood up.

“Ninavis, what are you doing here?” she hissed.

Brother Qown blinked and peeked over the chest.

Ninavis stood there, dressed in a Joratese serving mare’s dull brown split skirts and tunic. She had one hand frozen as if reaching for a weapon no longer by her side.

“By the Eight!” Ninavis whispered. “Don’t do that! What in the hell are you doing here?”

“I asked you first.”

Brother Qown stood up and fled the closet. “Never mind all that. We need to leave before anyone returns.”

Janel looked up toward the kitchen areas, then grabbed Ninavis’s hand and pulled her into the hallway and down a second set of stairs. Brother Qown followed, feeling naked and vulnerable and like they would be discovered at any turn. Had the servants gone downstairs? Would they stay quiet? It all made his stomach ache.

The staircase down to the first floor ended in a long hallway, already lit as the serving staff had moved through the house. Chatter echoed through the apartment as the staff cleaned and uncovered furniture, preparing the house for occupation. The count ignored this noise and motioned for everyone to follow her into a dark storeroom.

Once in the room, Janel grabbed a lantern from the wall and handed it to Brother Qown. “Light this.” She moved over to a thick iron grating in the floor, fastened shut with a chain.

“What are you—” Ninavis started to ask.

Janel broke the metal chain with her bare hands. “Follow me.”

She yanked up the grate and set it to the side.

Brother Qown lit the lantern and held it over the trap door while the count lowered Ninavis. Janel then did the same with Brother Qown.

“What the—”

A Marakori family sat up from their bedrolls, blinking at the intruders. From the way boxes had been pushed to the side to form a mini-fort, it seemed obvious they had disturbed squatters. They were taking advantage of the fact ground-floor basements were seldom used or visited.

For several heartbeats, no one said anything.

“Excuse us,” Count Janel declared. “I apologize for the interruption. I recommend you all leave. Our pursuers will eventually search down here.” She stepped over an old man as she headed for the door.

“Sorry,” Brother Qown said to the family. “Is there anything I can do for—”4

Ninavis grabbed him by the arm and dragged him with her.

The basement exited to Atrine’s ground level. The count unbarred the door and opened it, revealing the city’s garbage-strewn streets. From the smell, Brother Qown surmised refugees had been using the streets for sewage disposal.

Count Janel turned around to face Ninavis.

“What are you doing in Kovinglass’s employ? Talk,” Janel whispered, her face stony.

Brother Qown understood the count well enough to realize she wore this expression when she was furious.

Ninavis rolled her eyes. “Nice to see you too.”

Janel’s nostrils flared.

“Nina, please,” Brother Qown said.

The bandit leader shrugged. “It was the baron’s idea. Kalazan, I mean. We figured since you lot were on foot, the hike to Atrine would take you some time. In the meantime, once the army had cleared matters up back in Mereina, their Gatekeeper opened that stone for anyone who wanted to leave. I asked to go to Tolamer. Figured I could find work at the castle, keep an eye on Sir Oreth, and give you warning if I ever saw him move forward with that whole Censure business.”

“Khorsal’s droppings,” Janel muttered as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t need your help.”

Given their most recent conversation on protection, Brother Qown understood why she’d say that, even though—from his perspective—she lied. Count Janel did need help. She needed as much help as she could get.

Ninavis raised an eyebrow. “I don’t hold to your idorrá ways, Count. I’ll help who I damn well like, and I don’t expect any hand-holding or oath swearing in return.”

“I just meant…” Janel inhaled. “You didn’t have to do this. Kalazan didn’t have to do this.”

“Beg your pardon, but we damn well think we do. Kalazan owes you thudajé and don’t you try to deny it. He’s baron because of you. You think he’s just going to forget?”

“And you? Didn’t you just say you don’t believe in this idorrá or thudajé business? Why are you doing this?”

“My reasons—”

Brother Qown cleared his throat. “I hate to interrupt, but how are we going to find Dorna and Sir Baramon? If we don’t, there’s a very good chance they’ll run into Kovinglass when they return. Or worse, Sir Oreth or Relos Var.”

Ninavis startled. “Relos Var? He’s here?”

“Yes,” Janel said, “and just as much a villain as when last I saw him.”

Brother Qown turned to her. “Did he offer your grandfather the opportunity—?”

“No,” Janel said. “I’d never met the man before Mereina, nor seen his name mentioned in my grandfather’s papers. He told lies to Oreth, and whispered honey, and because Oreth is twice a damn fool he never thought to look for poison.” She slapped her hands against her hips. “The moment I learn Oreth is where I want him—on the verge of being too broke to continue with his schemes—Relos Var comes along. And with gifts and a cure for all Oreth’s problems. I was wrong. Oreth is in league with Yor. At least he is now. Damn the man to Hell.”

Brother Qown wasn’t sure which man she wished demonic vacations upon. Both, probably.

“But why approach Oreth?” Brother Qown asked. “What does Relos Var hope to gain from such a partnership? Revenge?”

“It’s not revenge,” Janel said. “We cost Relos Var his unwatched Gatestone in Mereina. He’s replacing it with a better one. Mine.” She paused. “Maybe it’s a little revenge.”

“We can talk about this later,” Ninavis said. “Come on. It can’t be safe to linger here, never mind what sickness we might catch from breathing in the fumes.”

The count nodded and took the lantern from Brother Qown, casting her gaze around the dirty streets with distaste. “If I remember, there’s a stairway at the end of the street.”

“Here,” Ninavis said before pulling a wrought iron key from her apron. “The key to Barsine’s apartment here. Kalazan wants you to use it. Unless the situation’s changed since I left, he’ll be in Atrine just long enough to swear fealty—but won’t stay for the Challenges. There’s too much work to be done in Barsine.”

“Wait, you’re not coming with us?” Janel didn’t reach for the key.

Ninavis shook her head at Janel’s question. “I can’t spy for you unless I stay.”

“I didn’t ask you to spy for me,” Janel protested. Then she added, “Also, I don’t know the way to the Barsine House. Did Kalazan give you directions?”

Ninavis ground her teeth. “Intolerable girl.”

The count grinned—a rare moment where she looked her age. “It’s what you love about me.”

“Oh, blessings of the sun, you two.” Brother Qown sighed and shook his head. “Can we please discuss this elsewhere?”

Ninavis scowled and put the key back in her pocket. “Fine! Follow me. And watch your step.”