City of Dragons

There was satisfaction in shouting, a small relief in his tension that he could leave the steward pale and shaken, in fear for his livelihood. It would have been much better if the man had immediately produced the missing scroll, but he would eventually.

Unless Alise and Sedric had stolen it. And what of the other extremely expensive scrolls that the graceless little woman and his lackey had been acquiring for years? He halted midstride, thinking back to how assiduously Sedric had searched out costly and ancient writings for her, and how relentlessly he had encouraged Hest to purchase them, saying that it was only to keep Alise occupied. Toward the end of their time together, Sedric had even dared to assert that she “deserved” such gifts, as recompense for a marriage of convenience! Hest had countered that she had known what she was getting into when she signed their marriage contract. He’d made it plain to her from the beginning that it was about appearances, convenience, and an heir. Now he wondered starkly just how much of his fortune she’d spent on her tattered bits of cowhide and musty books. There would be an accounting somewhere, some sort of an inventory of them. Sedric was fastidious in his record keeping. But where? Or had they taken that along with the precious artifacts with them when they’d run off together?

Damn them! Of course they had. It all made sense now. Sedric’s insistence that Alise be allowed to make her useless journey to the Rain Wilds. His foolish quarreling with Hest that had led to Hest ordering him to go with her. Of course. He ground his teeth in fury. They’d collaborated against him, made him a fool in his own home, with his own money. Well, they’d see that he was not to be trifled with. He’d track them down and get his own back, leave them penniless and shamed!

His breath was coming fast, his heart hammering high in his chest. He forced himself to stand still, took deep calming breaths, and then paused a few moments to tug his jacket straight and arrange his collar and cuffs. He didn’t know who the Chalcedean in his visiting chamber might be, but it was possible he was a loose end in Sedric’s plot against him. And if so, Hest intended to get every bit of information out of the man that he could. Then he’d have Ched throw him out of the house.

Calm and composed, at least on the surface, he entered the chamber, a blandly polite smile on his face. The Chalcedean man who awaited him was young and muscular. He wore a brocaded vest over a loose white shirt. His flowing trousers were quilted silk, his short boots of gleaming black leather. The blade that rode at his hip was neither sword nor knife but something curved and nasty between the two. The hilt was black, wrapped in leather. Not decorative but very functional. On the floor beside him was a satchel bearing the device of the Duke of Chalced. The man looked up from ransacking the drawers of Hest’s desk. His close-cropped dark hair and trimmed beard did nothing to hide the scarlet scar that ran from the corner of his left eye down across his cheek and over his mouth and chin. It appeared to be a recent injury, and his lips had not healed well. The edges of the scar were rubbery and bulging and, when he spoke, caused his words to be badly formed.

“Where is the promised merchandise? You will not get another chance simply to deliver it. Every day that it is delayed will cost you.”

Hest’s outrage at finding someone pawing through his desk abruptly shifted to fear as the man’s hand settled on the hilt of his weapon. Neither he nor Hest spoke for a long moment. When Hest found his voice, the words had no force behind them. “I don’t know what you are talking about. Get out of my house or I’ll summon the City Guard.”

The man looked at him, his gray eyes flat and considering. No fear, no anger. Only evaluation. It was chilling.

“Get out!”

The Chalcedean wheeled away from the desk and its disarrayed contents. As the man started past him, Hest pointed a disdainful hand at the door that still stood ajar. In one fluid and continuous motion, the man seized Hest’s wrist with his left hand as his right drew his blade and cut the captive hand, a long shallow slice from Hest’s palm to the tip of his index finger. Then the stranger released his wrist and sprang back.

Blood sheeted from the long gash and the pain was exquisite. Hest bent over his hand, roaring with pain as the Chalcedean walked over to the window and casually wiped his blade on the curtain. He spoke over his shoulder, unconcerned how Hest might be reacting. “A little reminder not to lie. The reminder not to be late on promised merchandise would be much more severe. More on the scale of the reminder that the Duke’s swordsman gave to me when I was forced to report that I had not received any recent word from either Begasti Cored or Sedric of Bingtown.”