P. Hodgell - The Sea of Time

“This is serious, dammit! Do you know how many people have been ruined by this lost mission? What’s more, they tell me that there will be no more in future. And whom do they blame? You and Lord Merchandy, that’s who!”

“We regret the city’s misfortune,” the king said in his nasal voice. “True, Mercer and I promoted the venture, but we also warned our traders not to be overwhelmed with greed.”

“P’ah. No one remembers that now. They see their losses, and they want someone to blame.”

“What, then, would you advise?”

“You have towers full of treasure. Distribute them to the people.”

Krothen pursed his rosebud lips. “So your son has proposed. To everyone, though, or only to those whose avarice brought about this catastrophe? What, then, would be left to pay the Southern Host for its protection? In future days we will need that, as never before, now that Kothifir has been so weakened. Gemma and the other Rim cities are already licking their lips. Perhaps I shouldn’t have hanged those Gemman raiders, even if they did kill a seeker.”

Jame thought that that last was probably true. Killing people in ambiguous circumstances rarely did any good.

As for the Host, it was preparing for what might come. That morning the camp had been shaken out of bed early by the blare of the alarm horn. Everyone had rushed to the inner ward, to be told that it was only a drill, but they had still been too slow.

Amantine stomped, regaining Jame’s attention. “Oh, you and your precious toy soldiers! Prince Ton promises to raise a militia that will do every bit as well.”

“Does he propose to lead it himself? Riding what two draft horses, or shall we find him an elephant? Speaking of which, what have we here?”

He had spotted the rhi-sar’s fearsome head bobbing behind and above the last rank of his attendants. Courtiers turned to stare, then to back away, some in fright, some holding their noses. The great beast smelled worse dead than alive. The Kendar bore it forward and let its hide sprawl at Krothen’s feet as if in obeisance. He clapped his pudgy, beringed hands in admiration.

“Your Magnificence,” said Jame, bowing. “Would you deign to preserve our prize with your touch?”

Brier lifted one of the flayed forearms and extended a talon as if it were reaching out to the king. He dabbed at it, then paused thoughtfully, twiddling his sausagelike fingers. Jame could see that he was tempted to claim the entire hide as royal booty.

“Don’t you dare,” she said, to a gasp from the courtiers.

Krothen pursed his lips with a moue of petulance, but withdrew his hand. “Should I rob so bold a hunter of such a trophy? Take it, with my blessing. Now, who have we here?”

Kalan nudged her son forward. The Langadine boy stared up at the mountainous figure before him, wide-eyed with wonder.

“Why are you so big?” he asked.

Krothen made a subterranean sound that emerged as a fat chuckle. “Why are you so small? Here. Have a candied centipede.”

The Kendar bundled up their prize and retreated, leaving Lanek perched on what was presumably the royal knee, dubiously regarding his still twitching many-legged treat.

While the ten-command departed to deliver the rhi-sar hide to Gaudaric, Jame went in search of Graykin. She found him at the shabby tavern most commonly frequented by the Intelligencers’ Guild, holding court among his dingy followers, none of whom looked pleased to see her.

“What do they have against me?” she asked when Graykin left them to join her at her table.

The spy shrugged. “You set me to look for Ran Awl and Nightshade, not to mention the other missing Randir. I recruited the entire guild to help me.”

“Without pay, I take it.”

“They should be glad to do their guildmaster’s biding.”

“Huh.” Jame took out a golden arax and rapped on the table with it. “Drinks on me for the house, until this runs out,” she told the slovenly maid who came to take her order.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Graykin grumbled.

“It can’t hurt. Now tell me: have you discovered anything about Shade and Ran Awl?”

“Not so much as a tinker’s fart, and we looked everywhere.”

“Undercliff too?”

He gave a moue of discontent. “You know we aren’t welcome below.”

“All right. As it happens, I’ve made my own arrangements there. And don’t look so sour. I remember your reception at Fang’s hands the last time.”

She surveyed the room, noting many sharp noses buried deep in refilled mugs but also many glittering eyes watching her and Graykin askance. Only Hangnail stared at them openly with hooded eyes, his drink untouched before him.

“Walk wary, Graykin,” she said softly. “Come the next Change, you could be in trouble.”

The spy shrugged. “That may not be for years. Anyway, whatever happens, I’m still your sneak, aren’t I?”

“I wish you wouldn’t call yourself that. I bound you, more or less by accident, and I’m responsible for you. Nothing will change that.”

Graykin let out a breath he seemed unaware that he had been holding. “That’s all right, then.”

Undercliff, Jame sought out the Waster Fang, who gave her a similar report.

“I can’t swear that my gang of urchins has searched every single cave—remember, they go back for miles—but we would have heard something if there were prisoners here below.”

Jame sighed and counted out a handful of coins. “For your efforts, nonetheless,” she said. “See that the children get some fresh fruit and vegetables. Where’s Kroaky?”

Fang glowered. “Here and there, as usual.”

“I ask for no secrets, mind you, but what is his connection to that great lump, Krothen? Surely you’ve noticed the resemblance.”

“No, I have not,” snapped the Waster. “What, d’you think I sit in the king’s pocket? I’ve never even seen the man.”

With that, Jame had to be satisfied.

Winter progressed without a sign of the missing Randir but with growing unrest in the city. Merchants and craftsmen began to feel the pinch of their lost ventures and, as the princess had foretold, they were quick to blame Krothen and Lord Merchandy. Some also looked to Lord Artifice, but it was well known that he had risked as much of his wares as any two merchants, enough seriously to compromise him. Of the three guild lords, only Lady Professionate escaped criticism on that count, although she found her hands full dealing with the newly stressed, combative populace.

No one wanted to admit that Kothifir’s days of glory might be over.

“Not that we can’t survive on our own talents,” said Gaudaric, sketching a shoulder plate in blue chalk on the creamy rhi-sar leather. He picked up a toothed file and began to saw. “I’ve said before that we have plenty of skilled craftsmen here, at least as many as the other Rim cities. True, some guilds will suffer more than others—the silk and spice merchants especially. Others shouldn’t have sent more wares than they could afford to lose. My own losses will sting for a while, but they won’t ruin me.”

Jame perched on a stool, feeling stifled. Gaudaric had bound plates of wet, boiled leather around her torso and there she would have to remain until they took her form.

“Sit up straight,” he told her, “and remember to breathe.”

“You really think that the city will recover?”

“My guess is that it will never be what it was, but if everyone is sensible, yes. Mind you, not everyone will be. People have grown used to the fat times and they will resent losing them. I credit that for this cry to distribute the king’s riches. Then there are the opportunists. Merchant Needham, now, there’s a fellow determined to turn things to his advantage at whatever cost to others.”