She paused at one more stall to admire a stack of leather-bound books, carefully turning the blank parchment sewn into the binding, imagining what mysterious things a scribe might write on the pristine surface. Halani set the journal down. Such goods weren’t for the likes of her. She could neither read nor write. Purchasing a journal made no sense.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, merchants began closing down their stalls. Halani walked a few more of the market paths, noting which sold goods the caravan needed to resupply their stores, which goods could be resold at more distant markets for profit, and which held those small indulgences she and the other caravan women might want to purchase for themselves or their children.
Except for the stalls selling ale and spirits, most of the market had closed by the time she abandoned her browsing and headed back to Hamod’s camp. A few people wished her a good evening as they passed. Others hurried by, pretending not to see her. Those wearing the official badges of Guild traders raked her with disdainful gazes. She was a free trader, not subject to Guild regulations and, thanks to the Savatar and Goban people, no longer barred from trading on the profitable Golden Serpent.
Halani returned their contempt with a sunny smile, nimbly dodging the stream of saliva one Guild trader spat at her. She expected nothing different and didn’t dwell on it until a voice behind her made her freeze midstep.
“Do you wish for him to apologize for his rudeness?” She pivoted to face the speaker, discovering a man taller than average height leading a sleepy-eyed horse by its reins. He tilted his head toward the trader striding away from them. “I can make him do so.”
Her defender was handsome, though not in the way some might think of male beauty, like Gilene’s husband with his refined features. This man’s face was sharper, harsher, with a beakish nose and a thin-lipped mouth creased on either side by unforgiving lines. His eyes reminded her of the ink Galedrin scribes made from oak and walnut galls—a brown so rich and dark, it looked black in certain lights, with streamers of sunlight swirling in its depths. His attractiveness was more memorable than traditional. His clothing and accented Common reminded her of the two mercenary-traders Hamod had dealt with earlier in the day, though he dressed far better than they.
The similarities alarmed her. Halani wasn’t a believer in coincidence, and while this market had drawn people from all parts of the Empire and territories outside its reach, she hadn’t seen many dressed like him or the trader pair. She had warned Hamod the engraved claw was sorcerous, and she didn’t think it too far-fetched that this man’s appearance in the Goban market wasn’t a matter of chance.
He waited for her answer, unconcerned that the Guild trader had put a fair distance between them by now. To Halani’s mind, he wasn’t worth the trouble of chasing down just to extract an empty apology. Such a thing offered momentary satisfaction followed by days of petty retributions. She wanted no trouble from the Guild.
She bowed briefly. “I thank you, but no. He means nothing to me; therefore, his opinion means nothing. Besides, an apology only has value when it’s sincerely given.”
And she didn’t want to be in a stranger’s debt. He might mean well, a noble gesture toward someone he considered unjustly wronged. Or his offer might come with expectation of repayment, something Halani had no intention of giving.
“A wise way to look at it,” he said and returned her bow. “Then I wish you well, madam, and bid you good evening.”
He led the horse past her, and Halani stiffened, hearing in her spirit a hum of earth magic, purling like a wave toward the shoreline with a tune she’d never heard until now. As if he heard the same from her, he paused, turned, and stared at her for several moments, saying nothing.
The nearby shout of a drunkard demanding a refill from one of the pub stalls snapped Halani out of her stupor. She retreated without returning the farewell, seeking a different way to the caravan camp, hoping the stranger wouldn’t follow her. He didn’t, though she felt the heavy weight of his gaze on her back long after the market stalls hid her from his view.
Hamod. She had to warn Hamod, of what she couldn’t say. A man with a horse and the feel of sorcery about him? Garbed like the traders who so wanted to get rid of the engraved claw? Her uncle might scoff at her suspicions, but he might not. He didn’t always listen to her advice, but he trusted her instincts enough to take them into account. Halani picked up her pace until she jogged along the paths, urged to greater speed by the certainty that if Hamod had purchased the ivory, he’d brought trouble to their camp.
CHAPTER THREE
The Spider of Empire perched on her throne, swathed in gauzy silks that did more to enhance her nudity than to cover it. Most of the colorful fabric spilled in a waterfall over her right shoulder, hiding the fact that she no longer possessed her right arm.
She crossed her legs, idly tapping the air with one foot as she pinned her best henchman with a flat stare. “If I thought you might be anything other than bored with it all, I’d invite you to the entertainment I have planned for later.”
As Dalvila’s favorite go-to minion for everything from a pie delivery to an assassination, Gharek had learned long ago not to show emotion to his liege and give her the opportunity to use it against him. She already had him by the balls as it was. The gods only knew what that “entertainment” entailed. Sex, torture, a combination of the two. He hadn’t heard any screaming when the guards escorted him into the receiving chamber to wait, but it only meant Dalvila hadn’t yet left a victim on her bedroom floor, insensate, insane, or in pieces.
“How may I serve you, Your Greatness?” The right voice modulation, that sweet-spot combination of interest and willingness without overt fawning, took practice and years for him to get it just right. And it had saved his life more than once when dealing with the Spider.
She motioned to a slave kneeling on the lowest step of the dais on which her throne sat. The man knee-walked up the remaining treads, carrying a large tome in his arms, which he carefully deposited on the small table next to the empress. A brief touch of his forehead to the marble floor, and he knee-walked backward down the steps to resume his former place. Gharek was impressed with the man’s dexterity in keeping his balance. Had he fallen, Dalvila likely would have punished him for the offense.
Dalvila casually flipped the book open, turning pages as if time stopped to await her pleasure. She finally closed the book and returned her attention to Gharek. “This book was taken out of Midrigar by a pair of thieves. Or one thief at least. The other didn’t survive the race to the gates.” Gharek quashed the urge to roll his eyes. Only the stupid and the greedy braved haunted Midrigar to steal artifacts. Even the desperate knew better. There were worse things to suffer than death, and they lurked in the ruined city, waiting for foolish prey that always, always fell into their trap. “The book must be of great value for someone to risk so much in obtaining it.”
“That, or there are those who’ll filch anything not nailed down.”
She tapped the book with the tip of one brightly painted nail. “This is an alchemist’s grimoire from the age of Emperor Vorhesian. Within it, recipes for an elixir and a salve I intend to have. The elixir grants long life and youth. The salve heals all wounds and even restores missing limbs. Both are made of gold and draga blood.”
Were this anyone except the empress telling Gharek such a thing, he’d scoff at them, advise they toss such nonsense into the nearest fire and stop wasting his time. This was not just anyone, so he waited, holding his tongue.
Dalvila searched his features with a serpent’s gaze, looking for any mockery there. Finding none, she relaxed in her seat and continued. “I have plenty of gold. I need a draga, and I want you to get one for me.”
You must be fucking joking, he wanted to snap at her. Whatever bizarre game she’d chosen to play with him this warm summer afternoon, she was the only one to find it amusing. Gharek, on receiving her summons, had assumed she had an assignment for him. Kill and get rid of a general who dared to question her, drown a woman she perceived as a rival for the terrified affections of a lover she’d probably hang in a fortnight once she tired of him. She’d once sent Gharek on a journey halfway across the Empire to bring back a culinary delicacy whose name he still couldn’t pronounce and which she declared disgusting after taking one bite. He’d dispatched her rivals, garroted her rebellious commanders, and delivered sugarcoated sweets to her without complaint and with alacrity and efficiency, earning her admiration if not her trust. Dalvila trusted no one. It was why she still held the throne in an iron grip, even after her husband, the emperor, was reduced to an ash heap in Kraelag’s god-fire conflagration.
Unfortunately for Gharek, she’d just set him up to fail. The only question was how long he could stave off the foregone conclusion of his execution with false promises and lies. “My understanding is the dragas were hunted to extinction in the Empire long ago, though I know your spies to be skilled in uncovering information. Have they found one hiding in your territories?”
Her thin smile warned him he trod dangerously close to the bootlicking she found so annoying and which had gotten more than one courtier’s head removed from his shoulders. “Not yet, but I expect we will soon.” The sweet chime of her laughter at his raised eyebrows didn’t fool Gharek. She sounded the same when she laughed at someone’s disemboweling. “And you’re right about my spies. I hire the best, and I send them even farther afield than I send you on occasion.” She glanced at the book, the flare of some emotion enlivening her empty blue eyes for just a moment before dying. “The Empire might not have dragas, but some of the kingdoms across the Raglun Sea do. They hide there in plain sight, disguised as humans most of the time, but dragas will be dragas, and some people have witnessed them transform and fly, raid farms to take cattle and sheep or steal treasure.”
He could believe that, though he wondered just how truthful these witnesses were and how much was simply storytelling twaddle more entertaining than accurate. Surely the empress’s spies didn’t believe every font of nonsense that reached their ears? Surely the empress didn’t believe everything her spies told her.