Brian Staveley - The Providence of Fire

For the hundredth time she slipped the narrow strip of muslin cloth from the pocket of her dress. That and a small purse of coin were the only things she could afford to take with her; anything else would be noticed when she left the palace. The rest of what she needed-pack, pilgrim’s robes, food-she would have to purchase in one of the Annurian markets. Provided she could find the right stall. Provided her barter didn’t give her away immediately. She coughed up a weak laugh at the absurdity of the situation: she was the Annurian Minister of Finance, hundreds of thousands of golden suns flowed through her offices every week, and yet she’d never bought so much as a plum for herself.

“No time like the present,” she muttered, wrapping the muslin twice around her eyes, then tying it tight behind her head. Through the blindfold the edges of the world appeared softened, as though a heavy ocean mist had blown west off the Broken Bay, sifting between the shutters. She could see just fine, but it wasn’t her own sight she was worried about. The purpose of the cloth was to hide the simmering fire of her eyes. She already knew it worked. She must have tried it out a dozen times already, in daylight and darkness, studying her face from every possible angle, searching for the glint that would see her dead until her eyes ached from the strain. In daylight, it worked perfectly, but at night, with the lamps snuffed, if she looked at herself straight on, she could see the faint glow of her irises. Maybe if she just …

With a snort of irritation she tugged the fabric free.

“You’re stalling,” she told herself, speaking the words out loud, using the sound to goad her into action. “You’re a scared little girl and you’re stalling. This is why the old vultures on the council think you’re too weak for your post. This, what you’re doing right now. Father would be ashamed. Now stuff the ’Shael-spawned cloth back in your pocket, leave off mugging at yourself in the mirror, and walk out the door.”

Not that it was quite that easy. Beyond her outer door waited Fulton and Birch. The pair of Aedolians had watched over her each morning since she turned ten, their presence as reliable as the walls of the palace itself. She had always found them a comfort, two stones in the shifting currents of Annurian politics; now, however, she worried they might destroy her plan before she could set it in motion.

She had no reason to distrust them; in fact, she had thought long and hard about confiding in the two, about asking them to come with her when she fled. Their swords would make the long road that much safer, and the familiar faces would be dearly welcome. She thought she could rely on them, but then, she had relied on il Tornja, and he had killed her father. Fulton and Birch were sworn to guard her, but so were the men sent east to retrieve Kaden, and though they’d been gone for months, no one had heard anything from him .

Keep your own counsel, she reminded herself as she swung open the door. Keep your own counsel and walk your own path. At least she wouldn’t get them killed if her whole plan collapsed.

The two soldiers nodded crisply as she stepped out.

“A new dress for you, Minister?” Fulton asked, narrowing his eyes at the sight of the rough wool.

“I understand wanting out of those miserable ministerial robes,” Birch added with a grin, “but I thought you could have afforded something a little more stylish.”

Birch was the younger of the two, a dashing portrait of military virility with his exotic blond hair and square jaw. He was pale, almost as pale as the Urghul, but Adare had seen plenty of bone-white northerners, mostly ministers and bureaucrats, come and go from the Dawn Palace. No one was likely to mistake Birch for a minister. The man was built beautifully as one of the sculptures lining the Godsway. Even his teeth were perfect, the kind of thing an artist might use as a model.

Fulton was older than his partner, and shorter, and uglier, but around the palace people whispered that he was the more deadly, and though Birch could be brash and outspoken around Adare-a familiarity earned after years dogging her footsteps-he deferred to the older man instinctively.

“I’m leaving the red walls,” Adare replied, “and I don’t want to be noticed.”

Fulton frowned. “I wish you had informed me earlier, Minister. I would have had your full guard armored and ready.”

Adare shook her head. “The two of you are my full guard, at least for today. I need to go to the Lowmarket, to check on the sale of gray goods for the ministry, and as I said, I don’t want to be noticed.”

“The Guard is trained in discretion,” Fulton replied. “We won’t draw undue attention.”

“Half a dozen men in full armor lugging broadblades?” Adare replied, raising an eyebrow. “I never doubted your discretion, Fulton, but you blend with the good citizens of Annur about as well as a lion with housecats.”

“We promise to purr,” Birch added, winking.

“Allow me just a moment to send a slave to the barracks,” Fulton said, as though the matter were already settled. “We will have a traveling contingent ready by the time you reach the gate. I will instruct them to wear cloaks over their plate.”

“No,” Adare replied. There was more stiffness in the word than she had intended, but everything hinged on this. Ditching Fulton and Birch would be difficult enough. If they managed to bring the full contingent, she’d be traveling inside a cordon of men like a fish caught in a loose net. “I understand that you’re just looking out for my safety,” she continued, trying to balance force with conciliation, “but I need an unvarnished view of what’s happening in the Lowmarket. If the stallholders know I’m coming, all the illegal goods will disappear by the time I get there. We’ll find a group of upstanding Annurian merchants hawking nothing more exciting than almonds and door fittings.”

“Send someone else,” Fulton countered, arms crossed. “You have an entire ministry under your command. Send a clerk. Send a scribe.”

“I have sent clerks. I have sent scribes. There are some parts of the job I must do myself.”

Fulton’s jaw tightened. “I don’t have to remind you, Minister, that the city is unsettled.”

“Annur is the largest city of the largest empire in the world,” Adare snapped. “It is always unsettled.”

“Not like this,” the Aedolian replied. “The priest who murdered your father was loved by thousands, tens of thousands. You revealed the truth about him, saw him killed, and then proceeded to force through a set of Accords that crippled his Church and his religion both.”

“The people don’t see it that way.”

He nodded. “Many may not, but many is not all. The Sons of Flame…”

“Are gone, I disbanded the military order.”

“Disbanded soldiers do not simply disappear,” Fulton replied grimly. “They keep their knowledge, and their loyalties, and their blades.”

Adare realized she had balled her hands into fists. The Aedolian had voiced her own secret hope-that the Sons of Flame were out there, and that they had kept their blades. In the stark light of day, her plan was madness. The Sons of Flame loathed her for what she had done to both their Church and their order. When Adare showed up in the southern city of Olon alone, unguarded, they were more likely to burn her than to hear her out, and yet she could see no other course.

If she was going to make a stand against il Tornja, she needed a force of her own, a well-trained military machine. Rumor out of the south suggested the Sons were regrouping. The force was there-hidden, but there. As for their loyalties … well, loyalties were malleable. At least she desperately hoped so. In any case, there was no point worrying the point further. She could wait in her chambers like a coddled lapdog, or she could take up the only weapon available to her and hope the blade didn’t slice straight through her hand.