Magistra Valetta’s was the only head that did not turn. Rumors ran through the palace of high masters crushed in their beds or quenched as their lights were buried.
Helenja leaned forward slightly. “Magistra, how are we supposed to decide on our demand for reparations from the Darkborn if we do not know what lives were lost?”
“The value of even one life is incalculable,” the mage said without expression.
“Yet we are going into negotiations with the archduke of the Darkborn and the men who were directly responsible for this atrocity,” Prasav said. “We will demand justice for your murdered people, but we will also demand reparations. And it will not come cheap.”
“The city,” Helenja said.
The others looked at her, Prasav frowning, Ember with eyes narrowed in speculation, Perrin with pale, parted lips.
Valetta blinked.
“Tell them we want Minhorne,” Helenja repeated.
“I very much doubt they’d agree to that,” Prasav said. “No matter what we held over them.”
Helenja’s fist closed. “The Darkborn live here on our sufferance. They depend on our goodwill. Our light is more deadly to them than their darkness is to us: any light kills them, but only complete darkness does us. Minhorne’s the only city of any size where we have to live like this. It’s unnatural.”
“I refuse to put my name to—,” Perrin said.
“Minhorne’s the largest, most prosperous city in the Sundered Lands.” Ember’s voice glided smoothly over the princess’s objection. “Arguably, it is this way because Lightborn and Darkborn economic interests have become intertwined to their mutual advantage, at least among the earthborn. Losing their industry and innovation at this time would cost us more than we could afford.”
Prasav’s daughter, indeed. Where the entire Lightborn realm was impoverished by hundreds of years of contracts with the mages, Prasav’s scrupulous—plenty said “ruthless”—economies had let him husband his wealth.
“Then let them live underground,” Helenja growled, “the way they used to. There’s a whole network of underground streets.”
The buried streets linking the older parts of the city were hundreds of years old, and Floria had heard Balthasar’s description of their condition—most damp, some collapsed, others more sewer than thoroughfare.
“What about you, Magistra Valetta?” Ember said. “What do the mages want from the Darkborn?” She leaned back into the sunlight to regard the mage, her face grave and concerned. The only death Magistra Valetta would acknowledge was that of Lukfer, a reclusive mage of strong but uncontrolled magic whom the mages accused, with his student Tammorn, of spreading false rumors about the Shadowborn.
“We have yet to measure our injury,” the mage said at last. “But we wish to hear what the Darkborn have to say. The streets
will
be safe for them.”
Magic kept those lights burning. Magic—particularly high-rank magic—could quench them.
Perrin spoke softly. “We, too, must live to reach the council chambers.”
Prasav said, with distinct impatience, “We have it taken care of, Princess.”
Perrin turned her silvery eyes on him, and for a moment Floria saw her father in her.
“My daughter,” Helenja said, before she could speak, “has a point. Please describe how exactly we are to avoid Isidore’s fate.”
“When the bell sounds, runners will leave the palace, carrying lights. They will string the route so that it is as brightly lit as the corridors of the palace. We will not travel together, and we will carry lights of our own. If there
were
”—a cut of the eyes sideways toward Magistra Valetta—“such a thing as Shadowborn, I doubt they would be able to swallow the magic in that many lights.” He folded his hands and said to Helenja, “
I
am satisfied with the arrangements; whether you are is up to you.”
Helenja acquiesced with a tilt of her head.
“Shall I suggest,” Ember said, evenly, “that we hear what the archduke has to say—how, for instance, he plans to deal with those responsible—and assess our injuries further before specifying the reparations we seek?”
Prasav said, “I think not. I am in a mood to demand.” He smiled coldly across the table. “So let us demand the city, and let them take the proper measure of our outrage.”
Ember dipped her head slightly in acknowledgment.
Magistra Valetta said, “Agreed.”
Perrin, the princess, licked her pallid lips and said nothing.
Balthasar
I should,
Balthasar told himself,
have realized what Sebastien was capable of
. Given what Tercelle Amberley had said, given what Sebastien had said about his parentage. But first there was that moment of sheer, abject terror to pass through, before he realized that he should already have been dead, if he were going to die. Sebastien was half-Darkborn, half-Shadowborn, and perhaps immune to the Curse—he had at least wondered about that possibility. But
he
, Balthasar, was not immune. . . . Yet here he stood, before a door open on daylight. Sebastien had been mage enough to bring them here; now the boy had proven himself mage enough to shield them both from daylight. Not even the Lightborn high masters had achieved that.
How can we fight these people,
Balthasar thought,
Telmaine, Ishmael, Vladimer, and me?
He swayed where he stood.
Sebastien thought it a fine jape and greeted the newcomers with suppressed glee more suited to the boy he was than the man he was pretending to be. “Welcome, Captain, Johannes. Come in; bring your lights. Don’t mind my brother; he’s a little nervous about the sun.”
A gust of heated air swept around the two men standing on the doorstep. Balthasar reached out with a shaky burst of sonn. The younger had the build of a man who labored for a living and the clothing of one who did no more than subsist by it: his vest was sleeveless and his trousers ended in a ragged hem. He wore thick-soled sandals with heavy, close lacing. His only adornment was a knot-work bracelet on one wrist. The older man was lean and supple, and Bal’s sonn picked out the indistinct texture of fine, soft lace in his sleeves and leggings. He carried a rapier and a pistol on his belt, and the fluid balance of his movements reminded Bal of one of the Rivermarch enforcers who was also a fencing master; it was how he imagined Floria would move.
“Balthasar,” Sebastien said airily, “fetch us some of that excellent beer.”
“None for me,” said the older man, gravel in his voice. Lightborn would not accept food and drink from those they distrusted.
“Nor me,” said the younger.
“Then come through to the sitting room.”
“I’d as soon speak here,” the older man said.
With the door open?
Balthasar wondered. His mind was beginning to clear of the panic inspired by the threat of sunlight. He took in more details of their stance, their position—close to, within lunging reach of, the door. Their distrust could not have been plainer if they had shouted it.
“Balthasar, these gentlemen represent two of our allies, Captain Rupertis of the Palace Vigilance, and stonemason Johannes of the artisan’s progressive movement. Gentlemen, my brother, Balthasar Hearne, Darkborn.”
Heads turned toward him for a long moment. Was he so obviously Darkborn to sight? It must be so; Sebastien appeared pleased by their reactions. Then the older man turned his attention back to Sebastien, while the other continued to face Balthasar. The self-styled progressive movement demanded revolution and the formation of a republic, and simultaneously rejected all forms of technological innovation, especially Darkborn. They were marginal, but not as marginal as Balthasar would have preferred. But Rupertis . . . He knew Rupertis by name, as one of the several watch captains of the Palace Vigilance. A captain of the Prince’s Vigilance, suborned or ensorcelled . . . What did that mean for Floria?
“Now,” said Sebastien, with Lysander’s smile, “what have you to tell me?”
“Why didn’t you tell us that you planned an attack on the tower itself?” Rupertis said.
“Why should we?” Sebastien said, folding his arms. “You didn’t need to know.”
The man’s jaw tightened. “Well, here’s something
you
need to know. Isidore’s dead. Fejelis has disappeared. And the Lightborn now have a
princess
—Princess Perrin, ruling with the backing of the mages. Your shells
didn’t
kill the archmage
or
the head of the Temple Vigilance. And they’ve taken over. Is that what you wanted?”
Sebastien’s smile had faded. “Who’s Perrin?”
“Isidore’s and Helenja’s eldest daughter. She showed at ten as a mage and was taken into the Temple.”
Sebastien shrugged. “Not a problem, as we’ve told you before.”
“Are you sure? Perrin’s a sport—born outside the Temple lineages. Fejelis claimed that lineage mages can’t sense your type of magic, but sports can.”
“That’s impossible,” Sebastien said, voice rising. “Lightborn can’t sense our type of magic.”
“You’d better hope they can’t,” Rupertis said, flatly. “Fejelis contracted with a sport mage, name of Tammorn, perpetually on the outs with the Temple, but strong. Fejelis claimed the shells that hit the tower were ensorcelled, and the sports dealt with them.”
Sebastien’s breathing was quick and shallow. “It didn’t happen that way.”
There was a grim satisfaction in the set of the man’s lips, hearing, as Balthasar heard, the wavering. “Fejelis put this to the archmage and high masters, in front of their brightnesses. They didn’t like that, I could tell you. Prasav made a play for Fejelis’s deposition, right there and then—had to, I figure, since if Fejelis had made the contract with the mages he was asking for, we’d never have shifted him—and the high masters stood aside when we drew on Fejelis. Cursed shame, I thought, but I had my orders.” From his tone, one would never know that he spoke of the murder of a nineteen-year-old man. “That sport mage of Fejelis’s swatted the quarrels aside and
lifted
himself, Fejelis,
and
Orlanjis out of there. If the mages know where he took ’em, they’re not saying.”
He waited for a reaction, and then said, dangerously, to Balthasar’s ear, “But it doesn’t actually matter to you who is prince, does it?”
Sebastien, too, heard that undertone. “Of course it matters,” he said quickly. “That was the agreement: we help deal with Isidore and with Fejelis, and leave the way clear for Prasav. We’ll help deal with Perrin and the mages. They’re lying; they’re hurt.”
“Was it Beaudry’s own plan to quench himself after he put a crossbow bolt through Fejelis?” Rupertis said. “We found his residue bundled up in a black tarpaulin. He didn’t even try to get away.”
“I don’t . . . ,” Sebastien began, and checked himself. “I didn’t order him to do that.”
“Floria White Hand is still alive,” Rupertis said. “Fejelis put a warrant out on her himself, sooner than we expected. We sent a team after her, but the woman’s as sharp as her rapier. She cut through the screen into her Darkborn neighbor’s house. Got out that way—” His face swung toward Balthasar. “
That’s
where I’ve heard the name. So you’re part of this, too.”
“
No
,” Balthasar said, fiercely; that much the ensorcellment did not forbid. “Never of my own free will.”
The captain’s face clenched, as if he heard an accusation. “You’d understand better if your rulers had beggared you with taxes to pay mages to protect them against other mages. My family used to have lands and a name—his did, too.” He gave another jerk of the head toward Johannes. “We were bled white by taxes from our lord and by our own Temple contracts. We turned vigilant, hired swords, but decades of service, decades of practice . . .” He flexed his sword hand. “We’re no more than glorified footmen, hired for a show of wealth, because earthborn are
cheap
, and when the money finally runs out, we’ll slip another step down toward begging in the streets.”
From his council service, Balthasar knew the price that the Lightborn had ultimately paid, both for the original compact with the mages and for their own murderous customs. By the compact, mages could not use magic against earthborn in their own interests, but could be contracted to do so by earthborn—and thereby indemnified of the consequences. Over time, as the tradition of deposition of heads of houses established itself, anyone at risk must contract with the temple for their protection, against threats both magical and secular. Now, after hundreds of years, much of the wealth of the princedom resided not in the hands of the prince and their brightnesses, but in the hands of the mages, who had much less interest in employing earthborn. And every year the number of starving in the provinces and vagrants in the city increased.
“Isidore tried to fix it, but he’s been bled white, too.” A grim smile. “They’re all fussing about the prince’s caul having gone with Fejelis, but the thing’s no more than wire and glass. Some of our lineage turned jewelers, and I have their word on it. Prasav is the only one who’s been able to hold on to his wealth; he seemed the best bet, the best gamble, for those of us who’d rather not be eating the garbage from the streets.”
“I have served several terms on the Intercalatory Council; we know, as much as anyone can know on the far side of sunset, how it is with you. What”—another question for which he did not want to know the answer—“was the warrant for Floria—Mistress White Hand—for?”
“The deposition of Isidore. Fejelis said she’d been ensorcelled to take a talisman to the prince’s rooms, a talisman that would annul the lights around it.”
“
No
,” whispered Balthasar. “She served him all her adult life—”
“Tasted every dish he ate,” the captain confirmed. “Closer than a wife, to Helenja’s ire.”
For a long moment, ensorcellment or no, Balthasar simply hated the Shadowborn. How many people’s loyalty, how many people’s despair, had they used to craft their way to power? For their design was power, he had no doubt of that. They did not care which Lightborn became prince, because their aim was their own ascendancy. Did Rupertis know what he worked for?