Joel Shepherd - Petrodor

“Outcome?” Alexanda said dryly. “There is no outcome, Marlen.” Several men frowned at that informality. Alexanda did not care. “The matters that divide the men of Lenayin divide them still. I believe this rebellion was overdue, in truth. King Torvaal is an honest and trustworthy man, but his circumstance makes him a poor ally. Lenayin is unstable, it always has been, and always shall be. Only a fool would hope otherwise. Should an army of Torovan march into the Bacosh to fight with the Larosa, the army of Lenayin could just as likely prove our doom as our victory, you mark my words.”

“If you don't wish to fight, Alexanda,” Duke Tarabai said loudly, “just say so. Rather than invent these pitiful excuses to frighten us all.”

“Only a fool, I said,” Alexanda repeated, with a glare at the tall Duke of Danor.

“Will you not fight, Alexanda?” Patachi Steiner asked. His tone was still, his eyes unreadable. This man had ordered more men killed than Alexanda had drunk cups of wine. The gaze of such a man held a great weight, regardless of his expression. “I am informed that you have come with a guard of four hundred soldiers?”

“Five hundred,” Alexanda replied, matching Steiner's gaze. “These are but a token. Archbishop Augine himself has called for men of faith to make war in the Bacosh, to reclaim the holy lands of Enora, Rhodaan and Ilduur from the serrin. I have many more men of faith in Pazira who stand ready to join such a quest. I merely state that no battle was ever won by wishful thinking. Should the men of Pazira join an army of Torovan in the march south, we should be fully prepared for all eventualities.”

“And beneath whose banner shall you march, Alexanda?” asked Duke Belary. His jowled, bearded face was pink with the pleasure of his insinuation.

“I am here, aren't I?” Alexanda said coldly. “Where are the Dukes of Songel and Cisseren, might I ask? Why not aim your barbs at them?”

“They accepted other invitations,” Patachi Halmady said coldly. Family Maerler, he meant. The rivals. The enemy. Family Steiner were not the only ones who knew how to throw a Sadisi party.

“As is their right,” said Patachi Steiner, mildly. “Family Maerler have stronger holdings in the south, it is only natural that Songel and Cisseren should accept their invitation. More talks shall be had. We shall see if there is an understanding to be reached between us.”

Which, Alexanda thought darkly, could mean anything from innocent dialogue to mass slaughter. He had not brought five hundred soldiers merely to demonstrate his readiness for war-he'd brought them for protection, too. Patachi Steiner, for reasons that eluded Alexanda, saw a profit in this mad war. If an army of Torovan was to be formed, Family Steiner wanted command. House Maerler most likely wished the same. Gods prevail upon them all a rare common sense and civility, Alexanda thought. Or else there'll be trouble.

“The girl,” said Duke Belary, scratching at where his beard failed to cover his second and third chins. “She should be killed.”

“And Cronenverdt too,” agreed Duke Tarabai, nodding vigorously.

The patachis, Alexanda noted, showed little enthusiasm at the suggestion. “Easier said than done,” said Patachi Halmady. He was a tall, thoughtful man of a mild temperament. It was said he had a taste for books and learning. It was also said that his interests sometimes made the brothers from the Porsada Temple uncomfortable. He did not show any outward sign of ambition, and was said by some to lack the spine of Patachi Steiner and his ilk. It made Halmady a safe, reliable ally for Steiner-a rare thing in Petrodor. “The Nasi-Keth are formidable warriors, and they have much support across the lower slopes. We do not venture there lightly, my Dukes.”

“Allow entry for two hundred of my best men,” Duke Tarabai boasted. “I have swordsmen in Danor without equal. Tell us where they live, and we shall storm the place and have their heads.”

Amongst the patachis, eyes were rolled. “Are you that eager to lose two hundred men, Duke Tarabai?” one asked.

“Such has been tried before,” Symon Steiner said coolly. “There are many hundreds of Nasi-Keth, my Duke. Perhaps as many as fifteen hundred. They fight like demons, and they own the alleyways as surely as the cats. The poor love them and will warn of any move in force. Worse, the poor will barricade, and spy, and drop flaming jars from the windows. And, in all likelihood, the serrin will help them. There are at least two hundred of the talmaad in Petrodor, probably more of late. Senior Nasi-Keth also move from house to house and rarely stay in the same lodgings for long, so their location can hardly ever be guaranteed. Even should your two hundred men survive long enough to reach the target, the house would likely be empty…and very few of your men would live to escape back here to the higher slopes.”

Duke Tarabai drew himself up, bristling. “You underestimate my men, young Steiner-”

“There shall be no such attempt,” said Patachi Steiner, with a sharp gesture of his hand. “The forces of the provinces shall not operate in the city without the consent of the families. And we do not give it.”

Duke Tarabai paled a little beneath the patachi's stare. “As you say, Patachi. I meant no offence.”

“You are correct in one thing, though,” the patachi continued. “Cronenverdt and his girl make matters complicated. It shall be difficult to raise any army and come to an understanding with the Maerler, with the Nasi-Keth suddenly militant and interfering beneath Cronenverdt's command. But one must know the city, Duke Tarabai. You are a foreigner from the countryside. I-” he raised a crooked forefinger, “ I have lived in this city for all my sixty-four years. I have done business here, and I have made fortunes here. I tell you that there are other ways, Duke Tarabai, to resolve a problem, than the brutal force of a direct assault. Such is not the Petrodor way.”

Duke Tarabai made a small bow. “I concede to your wisdom, Patachi. What are your plans?”

The great man of Petrodor gave the Duke of Danor a lingering, watchful stare. “When I need you to know,” he said simply, “I shall tell you.”

“Well it wasn't me,” said Rhillian, sipping a cup of water. “It's the usual Petrodor tangle. Anyone could have killed Randel Ragini.”

The bar was dingy, old plank walls lit with dull lamps, small, scattered tables frequented by a few quiet patrons. Most of The Fish Head's usual customers were outside.

Sasha sat alongside Rhillian, watching Kessligh's expression. Aiden, one of Kessligh's closest allies amongst the Nasi-Keth, wore a thinking look. They spoke Saalsi, as was common between Nasi-Keth and serrin in Petrodor. Very few who were not one or the other could speak it with any fluency. It made spies less of a problem.

“I hear Randel Ragini was actually a good man,” Aiden volunteered. He had a homely face, with a wide neck and unremarkable chin, black hair slicked back from his forehead, and friendly brown eyes. But he wore the sword at his back svaalverd-style and had passed the useen of the Nasi-Keth-the graduation ceremony, from uma to uman, student to teacher. Such men were not to be taken lightly, no matter what they looked like. “He gave money to the Riverside Brothers, and helped fund an orphanage at Cuely. It's sad.”

“Good men usually die first amongst the families,” said Kessligh. He looked grim, and just a little tired. The dull lamplight seemed to weary his features even further. It seemed to Sasha that, for the first time in all the years she'd known him, only now did he truly look the fifty years she knew him to have. A craggy face, sharp-edged and worn. Her uman for twelve of her twenty years. The nearest thing to a father she'd ever have. Certainly her true father, King Torvaal of Lenayin, would never qualify.