‘How would I know what’s going on when I’m not here?’ he began, then realised that Jusan was simply keeping up with local gossip. He saw Jusan’s expression change and turned to see Millie leaving the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She became aware of Jusan’s gaze and blushed, hurrying over to where Gwen was talking to a company of travellers at a corner table. Declan returned his attention to his apprentice, who was almost gaping.
‘Who is that?’ asked Jusan. Declan glanced back again to see Millie peer past Gwen, then look away. He realised that while she looked very young to him, Millie was only a year or two younger than his apprentice. He saw Leon observing it all with a wry smile and said to no one in particular, ‘There’s something about this inn.’
Jusan didn’t share Declan’s aversion to displaying his interest openly. After watching the boy ignore the drink Gwen had set before him for a full minute, Declan tapped him on the arm.
‘What?’ asked his apprentice.
‘Your ale,’ said Declan, pointing at the large pewter jack on the table. ‘Her name is Millie.’
‘Oh,’ said the younger man, taking a long pull. Finally he asked, ‘What do you know about Millie?’
Declan told his apprentice what Leon had told him and Jusan sat staring at the girl while he listened. After he finished, Declan said, ‘So, now what?’
‘I think she’s just right,’ muttered Jusan.
‘Right?’ Declan’s brow furrowed. ‘For what?’
Jusan looked at his master and said, ‘For me!’
Declan tried not to laugh. ‘Is that so?’ asked the smith, barely containing his amusement. ‘Perhaps you should have a conversation with her before you marry the girl.’
Jusan looked down, embarrassed, but then looked his master in the eyes. Declan allowed his apprentice a great deal more familiarity than was usual in the trade and accepted the lad’s challenging expression without becoming upset.
‘I’m not that stupid,’ said Jusan. ‘But back in Oncon, I never met a girl … I mean, I met them, but … you know.’
Declan let out a slow sigh. He knew exactly what Jusan meant. Had things not proceeded as they had, Roz would have no doubt seen to Jusan’s instruction, but without accounting specifics, Declan understood that he was the one the girls fancied, the smith, not the boy apprentice.
‘Finish your ale and get back to the forge,’ said Declan to Jusan. ‘I’m going to linger and have a word with Gwen.’
Jusan’s expression showed he wasn’t happy with the order, but he said nothing as he nodded and took a long pull of his ale.
‘I’m certain young Millie took note of your … attention,’ said Declan. ‘If you didn’t scare her to death, I’ll find out from Gwen if she’s interested in meeting you.’
Somewhat mollified by that, Jusan nodded and glanced around the room. Millie must have returned to the kitchen, for he finished his ale and, without a word, stood and left the inn. Declan took a sip of his own ale and wondered if at times he looked as stupid to Gwen as Jusan must have seemed to Millie, and hoped not.
As the last customers departed, Gwen approached Declan and said, ‘You want anything else?’ She sounded tired, perhaps bordering on being cross.
‘I thought we could talk?’ he said as she removed the empty ale jack before him.
A series of expressions quickly crossed Gwen’s face as she put down the jack. Suddenly, she leaned over and kissed Declan hard on the mouth, then backed away slightly, looked him in the eyes, and softly said, ‘Declan, you’re a sweet man and normally I enjoy our chats, but you are as thick as a brick sometimes. I’m tired, and I still have chores, so get out of here before I get angry.’
‘Angry?’ he sputtered, his face a mask of confusion.
‘Either you know what you want, or you don’t. I’ve turned down lads already, and a few of them had rich fathers. I’m tired of waiting for a man too stupid to—’ Now visibly close to anger, Gwen continued, ‘You better know what to say to me when you get back, or I’m going to stop ignoring those rich lads! I’m nineteen years old this summer and should have been married with a baby over the last year. My da isn’t going to keep me here forever. We have a new girl, which means it’s time I headed out on my own.’ She grabbed the empty jack, turned, and left him speechless as he watched her retreating back.
Getting up slowly, Declan departed, wondering what it was he had or hadn’t done this time – and, more importantly, what he was going to do. Walking the streets back to his forge, he considered that maybe he should pay more attention to what Jusan was trying to tell him.
• CHAPTER EIGHTEEN •
A Betrayal and Plot
Hatu stood silently in the corner as the masters and preceptors arrived. He had eaten breakfast alone in his room and stayed there until summoned to the main room of the small house, where he had dined the night before.
A semicircle of cushions had been arranged around a low table, and it quickly became obvious who the masters and preceptors were as the men took their seats. The preceptors moved to the corners of the room, and the masters sat on the cushions.
The preceptors were the highest-ranking teachers in Coaltachin and worked on behalf of all the clans and families, for which they were handsomely paid and shown deference by all but the masters. Outside of families and clans, they rose to their position on skill alone and came from all backgrounds. Their one responsibility beyond teaching was to remain neutral in any conflict among the families, who presented the occasional problem, and among the clans, which was rare but not unheard of.
The seven most powerful masters formed the Council. They ruled the nation and were tasked with ensuring that when Coaltachin spoke to the outside world, it did so with one voice. Most of Coaltachin’s contact with the outside world occurred through contracts and commissions, most of which involved murder, treachery, espionage, and havoc. The Council controlled trade to and from the island, either through ownership of local businesses or extortion to ensure loyalty and secrecy. The largest source of their wealth came from Coaltachin’s control over much of the crime in a large region of the Northern Islands and the eastern cities of North and South Tembria.
Even rarer than the Council overtly acting in a public fashion, was anyone other than a master addressing the seven masters in person. Hatu knew he was about to experience something uncommon, perhaps unique.
A large man with a flushed face, older but powerful-looking, came into the room and looked around; seeing Hatu, he took a step towards him.
‘Kugal!’ said Master Zusara, causing the obviously angry man to pause. ‘Please, sit by me.’ He indicated a cushion next to the one he stood behind. Kugal paused, nodded once, and moved to stand beside his host, and the two men sat.
When the last of the five masters was seated, Master Zusara said, ‘Welcome. Two of the Council are too far removed to reach us this morning, so it will be for the five of us, assisted by the wisdom of the preceptors, to decide how we shall deal with what you will hear today.’ He looked at Hatu and with a wave of his hand indicated he should come and stand before the masters.
When he did, Zusara said, ‘This boy’s name is Hatu. He is close to his manhood day. He is from Master Facaria’s village; Facaria waits outside, in case we desire his counsel.’ Looking at Hatu, he said, ‘Now, take as much time as you need and repeat the story you told me last night.’
Hatu battled nervousness, for he had never spoken in front of more than one or two men of rank before, let alone a room full of masters and preceptors, and never about a matter of such gravity. All eyes were fixed on him as he once again began his tale, starting with the assassination of the merchant and ending with being picked up from his slowly sinking boat. Several times near the end he paused to battle back tears, but no one spoke until he was finished.
Then suddenly, Master Kugal shouted, ‘You left my grandson to die!’
He was halfway off his cushion when Zusara gripped his arm firmly and softly said, ‘Kugal.’ There
was just enough authority in his voice to cause the bull-necked master to hesitate, then sit back down.
Hatu did not know if Kugal’s remark had been a question or an accusation and remained silent. From a corner behind the masters, a voice said, ‘I don’t think he had any choice in the matter, Kugal. From what Hatu has said, Donte was near death when the boy was freed.’
Suddenly, Hatu realised it was Reza who spoke, transformed enough by his garb and the shadows that Hatu hadn’t recognised him when he came into the room.
Zusara nodded in agreement with his youngest son.
‘Then why was he alone left alive?’ demanded Kugal, pointing at Hatu. ‘Why was he freed by those witches?’ he shouted.
‘A very good question,’ said Zusara. He inclined his head slightly towards his son and said, ‘We shall have to speculate on that, won’t we?’
Reza came forward and motioned for Hatu to follow him outside. They left the main room and took the three steps to the courtyard. Outside, on a stone bench reading some papers, sat Master Facaria, the ruler of Morasel, the island where Hatu had lived during most of his childhood.
Hatu knew he always read every report, account, or message directed to him. He was considered a competent master when it came to running the tiny village of Otashu and his small island, and his main task was to raise the children who would go into field training.
His family was small, and it was possible that when Facaria died, his line would end and his holdings be claimed by another family. The idea another master might take over Morasel seemed odd to Hatu. While each place he visited had its own feel, Morasel felt like … home. Hatu couldn’t imagine the small island without Master Facaria’s careful oversight.
Hatu had wondered what Facaria had been like when he was young; no one rose to the rank of master by simply being a good administrator. To be a master meant that you had bloodied your hands, usually a great deal over many years, and more critically, it meant you had survived attacks from rivals within Coaltachin as well as enemies from without. You either rose to the rank or inherited it, but it took violence to hold what you had. That was the way of Coaltachin.
Facaria looked up from his papers. ‘Am I needed?’ he asked Reza.
Reza shook his head, said, ‘They’ll call if they need any of us,’ and sat down on the stone bench next to Facaria. Hatu was left with a patch of ground beneath a shady tree.
MASTER ZUSARA SAID, ‘WELL, THERE you have it.’
There was a moment of silence before Master Kugal said, ‘He survived and left my grandson to die! He must be hiding something. He must be working with the witches!’
Zusara had a long personal history with Kugal; they had been boys together in the same village, so Zusara was used to his anger and his need to blame others. But despite his many flaws, Kugal was a friend, so Zusara indulged him. ‘Perhaps,’ was all he said in response.
Another voice spoke, ‘What is it you’re not telling us, old man?’
Zusara recognised it and that it held a slight humour. ‘Mikial, I didn’t see you arrive.’
With a chuckle, the man in the corner said, ‘There was a time you’d have whipped me, Father, if you had noticed.’ A tall, powerful-looking man of middle years stepped out of the shadows. ‘What is it you’ve not shared with us yet?’ Implicit in the question was the idea that the old master of masters was sharing information in such a way as to further his own goals. Zusara was not a king, by any measure, but he was very clever in ensuring he remained first among equals.
‘I spoke with the seer last night. She judged the boy a grave danger to us. He is the Firemane child.’
Only two of the masters, and none of the preceptors, had known. ‘Impossible,’ muttered one, ‘it’s a myth.’
‘No, it’s not only possible, but also true,’ answered Zusara. ‘After the Great Betrayal, a nurse at the villa where the Langene family awaited news saw the enemy soldiers coming, grabbed the baby out of his cradle, and gave it to a young girl, who fled down a pathway to the beach. She ran to a village and gave a brooch to a fisherman to take her by boat to the site of the battle.’
‘Why would she do that?’ asked Mikial.
Another master said, ‘It seems the height of madness to carry the child towards the slaughter.’
‘I can only speculate,’ said Zusara. ‘Perhaps the servant thought the child’s father still safe, that the attack on the villa was separate from the battle in the south. We can see the betrayal of the Firemanes from the vantage point of history; she endured but a moment of it.’ He shrugged. ‘Or perhaps she was urged by some property of magic the seer warned of, this elemental fire that burns within the boy.’
‘Burns within—’ began a question from one of the masters.
Zusara held up his hand. ‘Our role in the Betrayal concerned the battle, not the destruction of the villa and slaughter of the king’s family. We only learned of the boy’s survival after Master Facaria took Baron Daylon’s charge.’ He shrugged as if it was of little importance. ‘How he was carried safely is a curiosity but has nothing to do with our charge to care for the boy. He—’
Master Kugal interrupted, almost shouting, ‘My grandson is dead and that boy lives because of some dark magic. He is in league with those witches! He must die!’
Zusara didn’t feel the need to debate the finer points and said simply, ‘I agree, Kugal, but the seer warned that great destruction could be unleashed on this boy’s death. That magic will flow from him …’ The old master shrugged. ‘The consequences, she does not know.’
‘What do you propose?’ demanded another master.
‘The boy shall die, but far away from here.’ To his son, he said, ‘Get Facaria; he waits outside with your brother and the boy.’ To the preceptors, he said, ‘What needs to be discussed is for the masters only.’
The preceptors departed and after a moment, Mikial returned with Facaria. He nodded in greeting and said, ‘I am here, Zusara.’
‘Tell us of the boy.’
‘He is angry,’ said Facaria without hesitation. ‘He has always been angry; it burned inside him even as a baby. He has learned to control it, to hide it deep within, but it is there. It is a powerful thing.’
‘Burned inside him,’ added Zusara.
‘We must kill him!’ shouted Kugal.
Facaria appeared surprised by the outburst but ignored the reason for it as he responded, ‘We cannot.’
‘Why the hell not?’ shouted Kugal, even louder. Zusara made a ‘quiet down’ motion with his hand and then inclined his head, as if echoing the question to Facaria.
‘We have a contract and must deliver the boy to Lord Dumarch next month,’ Facaria said.
‘You have a contract, you mean,’ said Kugal accusingly. ‘That battle was your last duty in the field, and you committed us all.’
‘You took a share of the seven weights of gold a year gladly,’ was Facaria’s calm response.
‘So the boy dies,’ said Kugal. ‘We send word to Dumarch and that’s the end of it. There’s no need for him to know the truth of how the boy came to die. Have him fall off a roof or drown fishing; it doesn’t matter. He would never know.’
‘We would know,’ said Zusara. He sighed heavily. ‘Our true strength does not lie in all our wealth, nor in our mighty army, or even our nocusara. Our strength lies in our reputation. We cannot violate a contract. Our ability to live as we do rests on both equally, fear and trust. That is why—’
He interrupted himself. To Kugal he said, ‘How many nocusara do you count among your gangs?’
Kugal said, ‘You know as well as I do. I have thirty-one.’
He quickly asked the same question of the other three masters, who gave similar answers, and then said, ‘And I have twenty-five. With those clans not in attendance our nocusara number is less than four hundred in total and we have three times as many sicari, scattered across half of Garn.
‘We have less than two thousand men and women who can cow armies ten, twent
y times their number. It is our reputation that protects them and makes them valuable, not magic skills or more-than-human gifts. It is the idea we have magic skills and superhuman gifts that protects us.
‘We can never break a contract,’ he finished with quiet steel in his tone.
‘I do not care where or when it happens, as long as that boy dies, so if you want to fulfil the contract, then kill him, I will accede to that.’ Kugal looked around the room as if daring anyone to demand more.
Facaria shrugged. ‘If the boy dies even a minute after our contract is fulfilled, it is of little importance.’ In his youth, Facaria had been one of the best of the nocusara, perhaps the best of all the men standing in this council. Even Kugal was forced to admit that it was the one area of knowledge in which Facaria was the most expert. He looked at Facaria for a moment, rage still simmering just below the surface, but finally he gave a curt nod of agreement.
Zusara also gave his agreement with a nod. ‘One minute would be a little too soon to avoid the look of complicity. And it might also be valuable to discover why Baron Dumarch wishes to keep him alive and a secret. So, how best to accomplish these tasks?’
Facaria said, ‘Let someone undertake the mission; have them pose as a travelling family, needed in Marquenet. The boy should think it a ruse and believe he is still for us. If they arrive on the appointed day, he can be turned over to the baron’s man, and then after a while, when we discover Dumarch’s plan, they can kill the boy.’
‘Who?’
Mikial spoke up. ‘Let Reza take the youth. They have built up a relationship. Perhaps there is some trust there.’
Zusara said, ‘No. We need another. I want any trouble to fall as far from our families as possible.’
Mikial thought for a moment, then looked at Hatu’s old village master. ‘Who does Hatu favour?’ he asked Facaria.
‘Bodai,’ he answered without hesitation. ‘The students like him best of all the masters. He’s … different.’