62: END GAMES

Atrine, Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since Tyentso told a high lord to “stand there and look pretty”

Janel woke, gratified to be alive, fearful of what news the Living World would bring. The Afterlife had been strangely deserted, with no sign of the demon hordes she expected to find snapping at the heels of such62 a massive event as the destruction of Atrine. The souls of the dead had freely wandered, however. There had been so many.

She staggered to her feet, ignored the concerned looks of military physickers. Outside, smoke turned the normally teal sky a sooty green; she’d only been unconscious for a few hours.

Ninavis waited for her outside the tent.

The woman seemed uninjured, a few smudges marking points on her forehead and jaw. Ninavis gestured toward a Joratese azhock as soon as she saw Janel, and they both started walking in that direction.

“Casualties?” Janel asked.

“We lost a few,” Ninavis admitted. “Dango took some shrapnel in his leg, but he’ll be fine. Although you wouldn’t know that with the way his husband’s fussing over him.”

“Oh, I can’t blame Baramon for that. I’d fuss too. What about—”

“Arasgon’s fine.” Ninavis held open the azhock flap for Janel. “He’s over at the refugee camp, helping herd.”

Janel nodded, relieved, and then couldn’t help but smile as she entered the azhock and saw the Markreev Malkoessian’s pennants. The smile faded quickly. There was only one reason that the Markreev would have set himself up so close to the high general’s bivouac: because the duke was in no position to do so.

“I’ll assume this means you weren’t able to save Duke Xun.”

“He must have died in the first few minutes of the attack. We always knew that was a possibility. Plan B, on the other hand, went smooth as silk.” The Marakori woman tapped the satchel at her hip.

“Good. That’s not all of them, I hope?”

“Oh no. Call it a representative sample.”

“Good enough.” Janel inhaled deeply. “Ninavis, I need to change the plan. I know what we discussed, but there’s simply no way—”

The tent flap moved as Markreev Aroth Malkoessian entered. He halted, shocked. Under normal circumstances, he probably would have had guards enter first, but maybe he’d assumed he’d be safe in the middle of the Quuros army encampment.

He recovered quickly, closing his mouth as he starred at Janel. “I had half convinced myself I’d seen a ghost when I spotted you earlier.”

Janel broke off from her conversation with Ninavis. She leaned against the table, stretched her arms up over her head, and smiled. “Oh no. Not at all. So now we really must finish that conversation we once had so many years ago about my ‘place.’”

The Markreev’s eyes narrowed as he lifted his chin.

Before he could respond, Janel continued, “But first I have an unpleasant task to complete.” She lowered her arms. “I regret I must inform you that your son Oreth is dead.”

He barely reacted, except his face paled. “Did you kill him?”

“He fell in with the Yorans—”

“So did you.”

“I was kidnapped by the Yorans. Not the same thing. In any event, I believe you already know about Oreth’s crimes. But after he left, your son found himself mixed up with unpleasantries. Really, it had nothing at all to do with Oreth, but he took the blame. Duke Kaen had him executed. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry it worked out the way it did.”

He swallowed, eyes bright, and said nothing for several heavy, tense seconds. “Very well.” He nodded. “I shall take it under advisement. I assume you’ve come here to throw yourself on my mercy—”

“No.”

Malkoessian frowned.

“I’m here to explain your new situation,” Janel corrected. “I’m sure you realize, or must suspect, that Duke Xun is dead. And you likely think that you’re the obvious choice to replace him.” She shook her head slowly. “Let go of that idea, Aroth. It’s not going to work out that way.”

“Have your years away made you forget all etiquette? You call me my lord.”

“No, I don’t.” Janel’s eyes flashed blue as she snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Look at me, Aroth. Look in my eyes.”

The rest of the Markreev’s admonishment died stillborn. Ninavis gave Janel an odd look.

“No, Aroth. You talked your son into believing that he was entitled to my bed. You gave him my grandfather’s letter and told yourself that you were forcing a marriage between us for my own good, for the good of the Theranon family name. Because of that belief, Oreth tried so hard to gain what you’d told him was his birthright that he strayed right into treason.” Her smile was cruel as she saw Aroth flinch. “I owe you no thudajé. But you owe me a great deal.”

The Markreev’s expression cleared. “So you want to be duke.”

“In fact, no.” Janel stepped away from the table and clapped a hand on Ninavis’s shoulder. “Please allow me to introduce you to Sir Ninavis Theranon. She’s going to be next Duke of Jorat.”

The Markreev likely didn’t notice the slight widening of Ninavis’s eyes, the startled glance the woman gave Janel. Ninavis recovered quickly.

“Theranon? But there are no other—”

“I’ve decided to adopt her.” Janel turned to Ninavis. “Did you know there’s no rule that says I can’t adopt someone older than myself?”

“Well, I know now,” Ninavis admitted, eying Janel warily.

“I’m also abdicating,” Janel continued. “I suppose that means she’s properly Count Ninavis Theranon. You will, of course, approve that succession. Which should be more than enough title to soothe anyone who would object to a Joratese ruler jumping from knight to duke.” She tilted her head toward Ninavis. “Bad news, though. I’m afraid you’re going to have to give up the tournament circuit.”

Ninavis stared at her hard. “I’ll cope.”

Aroth sputtered. “You can’t just pick a person and declare them in charge!”

Janel laughed. “Yes, we can. We can, and we do. All the time. Now you and I both know that since the duke died without heirs, there will be a meeting of the ruling nobles to pick a successor. You’ll find a great many of those nobles will have no problem putting in their vote for the Count of Tolamer. Especially once word begins to spread that said count is the Black Knight. You know, the one who slew that giant dragon? Everyone saw her ushering people to safety earlier while you and your family evacuated with the rest of the herds.”

Aroth’s nostrils flared. “This woman didn’t kill that dragon.”

“Oh, but I say she did,” Janel corrected. “And as I’m Janel Danorak, I know something about the power of a reputation. However, I never planned on relying on your good grace and kindness to ensure your cooperation.” Janel motioned to Ninavis.

In response, the woman pulled a sheet of parchment out of her satchel. She leaned over a brazier next to the desk and set an edge on fire, releasing the sheet as the whole paper caught.

“What was that?” Aroth demanded.

“I do believe that was a lien for fifty thousand thrones given to Count Jarin Theranon,” Ninavis explained. “Oh, did you need that?”

“What? How did you get that?”

“And this—” Ninavis pulled another paper out of the satchel. “Is another lien, originally between Jarin Theranon and the Baron of Omorse, but you bought that, didn’t you? Only ten thousand this time. Still, you have lent people a lot of money, haven’t you?” She rolled up the piece of paper and tapped it against the edge of the brazier. “All these loans. Half the empire is in debt to you, Aroth.”

“And that’s the problem, isn’t it?” Janel pursed her lips. “Truth be told, you stopped being a Markreev a long time ago. You’re not a Joratese noble protecting his herd; you’re a bank. A usurer.”

“How did you get those?” the Markreev demanded again. He glanced back at the entrance as if giving serious consideration to calling for his guards.

“I should rather think that obvious, Aroth,” Janel explained gently. “We stole them. All of them. Every proof of lien you have and all your accounting books as well. It turns out that while this giant dragon was attacking, no one was guarding the Atrine Gatestone, and there was only a token guard back at your castle.”

“Which means,” Ninavis said, “that as of this moment, you cannot prove you have lent anyone so much as a chalice.”

“You won’t get away with this,” Markreev Malkoessian snarled.

Janel waved a hand. “Think it through, Aroth. Yes, you can bring in Blood of Joras—wizards and truthsayers—to verify your claims, but do you really want to remind your fellow Joratese just how in bed you are with the Royal Houses? D’Aramarin in particular. Your Censure would be quite real. Or you can honor Ninavis’s claim, support her, and no one has to know this ever happened.”

His nostrils flared, and he didn’t answer.

Janel sighed. Again her eyes seemed to change color, flickering into something resembling an ice-blue cat’s eye before it settled back into crimson. “I’m making this offer because you’re a smart, pragmatic man, and I think you and Ninavis will work well together. Jorat will need a lot of effort in the years to come and our people need strong leaders.” She shrugged. “If I didn’t think you were the man for the job, I’d have simply killed you and your son Ilvar and let your firstborn son, Palomarn, become duke. But Palomarn’s a mare, and I know he’d hate having to be in charge of an entire ward. And Dorna would be upset with me if I killed you.”

The Markreev’s expression transitioned through a lot of emotions in quick succession: anger, worry, dread, fear, and finally a wary, grudging respect. He gestured toward Ninavis. “Why her, though? Why not yourself? Setting this up must have taken you years. No one just gives away power.”

The corner of Ninavis’s mouth quirked. “I admit I’m wondering this myself.”

“I’m surprised at you, Aroth. I’m not giving away power. I’m delegating. I’d do it myself, but it turns out I’m going to be too busy with more important matters.” She raised a finger as Aroth started to protest. “Yes, it turns out that there really are matters more important than ruling Jorat.”

Aroth Malkoessian examined Ninavis. “Can you do the job?”

Ninavis laughed. “Compared to Foran Xun? A goat would do better.” She shrugged. “Wouldn’t hurt to have a good adviser. Someone who’s actually Joratese might be nice. None of that Relos Var business.”

“Indeed.” His gaze turned contemplative. No doubt the Markreev was mulling all the ways he could possibly turn the situation to his advantage. “What about my papers?”

“What about them? I’ll keep them safe for you.” Ninavis’s grin bordered on nasty as she lowered the rolled-up page in her hand to the brazier. “Except for the Theranon debts, of course. It’s so kind of you to forgive those. Really, I’m touched.”

Janel snapped her fingers again, and the Markreev’s gaze focused on her immediately. “Do we have an understanding, Aroth?”

He met her eyes, which flickered pale blue again, then he shuddered. “Yes,” Aroth whispered. “Yes, we do. My … my lord.”

Janel smiled. “Good.”

Aroth shook himself.

“Well, you two should find Dorna and start planning how you want to approach the other Markreevs with the happy news about their new duke. I have other things to check on.” Janel bowed to them both and left to see who else had survived.