Gishna gripped the ledger. What were these matrons thinking? And what hope did she have of healing her people of this taint with such foolish members?

Time crowded her, pressed on her, demanded so much now when she had little time. The pieces of the mosaic were all out there, but would she have the time to gather them, to arrange them? And then there was plain old luck. The goddess was fickle. Nature was fickle.

Sinnin placed another list in front of her. The proposed pairings, the proposed fixes. So many of them, women and men, girls and boys, not all within her domain. The Zauhune champion’s victories at the next court—sure to be bloody—would bring her victory as well, filling her house with fresh blood. If Zauhune won lands in the south, she might dare pluck from them. Nature had determined Hosmyr’s destiny cycles ago, destruction in its very blood. But the name would endure. And her heiress. And, if all went well, her granddaughter would see the cycles. Gishna could die satisfied then.

She tapped the ledger. Maybe not satisfied, but close enough. She pushed aside the new report and looked down the list of failures. Only two bore the single tick of ink above the name signifying what she thought meant they had tender blood in them. She’d raised the question before, but they assured her it was not important. Something niggled her mind, though. Doubts about the seer. And yet she must trust him. His knowledge was beyond her, beyond anything the Mornae knew.

“Send word to my sons,” she said. “They are to attend the spring court.” She held up a finger as Sinnin’s assistant turned to leave. “And I want to know every detail of what happens there. Make that clear. Send a scribe with them as well. I expect a detailed report.”

“Should they aid the Zauhune champion if possible?” Nathin asked.

She nodded once.

Nathin bowed deeply and left them.

Estates were at stake. Lands from which she had not plucked. Lands ripe with new bloodlines. She would never trespass directly on Zauhune, but in the south valley, she might dare.

“I’ll see my consort as soon as he returns from his work,” she said.

Sinnin placed the harvest ledger before her. The land would yield eventually, as it had for thirteen cycles. There were always dips. Nature didn’t write in a straight line. That comforted her. She pushed it aside. This other matter, the great matter, weighed on her.

A servant brought a plate of thinly sliced cheese and pears, a cluster of berries to the side. She dropped a berry in her mouth, crushing it, savoring it. They tasted the same as ever, and behind the tang, the taste only a Mornae could perceive. She closed her eyes and let it work its way through her.

“Hesvin,” she said. “The girl. Let’s start with her. Make the preparations to confine her. Decide who among the Toshtolin is a good match. I will not let that house fall even if its current matron must.”

“Do you mean to form a new house?”

She shook her head. “No, the name must endure. The orchard is bound to it. I’ll not have a war over it. Just find a suitable replacement. Preferably a matron who's wise enough to think of her house first.”

“As you say, high matron,” Thensil said. “I will consult with the seer myself.”

Good, she thought. I don’t think I can bear listening to him. The goddess is fickle, he’ll say, and I’ll want to gouge out his eyes with my claws.

“Thank you, Thensil. Inform my consort. Let him give the work to whomever he thinks fit enough. It must happen before the winter gong. I’ll tolerate no delay. It must happen before Hesvin decides something inopportune during the winter.”

She stared at the ledgers sprawled out on the table.

“One more thing,” she said. “Send word to this tender. Let him know we expect Toshtolin to remedy this problem within a year’s time starting today. A little pressure may cause unfortunate events that can aid the transition to a more worthy pair.”

They bowed and left her, as she picked at the food.

Despite the gloomy reports, there was still hope.

12

Crags of black stone loomed overhead, jutting up straight and high into a white sky. The crater’s stern facade judged him, and Ren shrank away from it, huddled against a merchant’s stall. Did it know he’d arrived late and probably missed his chance for an easy entry into the mark’s estate? If it didn’t happen today, he’d have to break in at night or wait until spring. Both options were no good. His master expected the task’s completion by the winter gong and this estate was no pushover, even if it was in the Outers. It was a proper house with guards, dozens of servants, and a maze of rooms and halls. He’d need time to case it. Today gave him a straightforward way in, just as his handler had explained it. The crone had ordered it ring-to-chest. It was today or never.

He’d wanted more important work… now it just needed doing. This was his chance to show his betters what he was worth to them.

The principal market of outer Halkamas—or Lowkamas, as the commoners called it—was an acre of paved stone with stalls for houses that could afford the rent. Those that couldn’t set up makeshift stalls along the streets feeding into it. Black stone towers rose from clusters of white-walled square buildings on the north side: ancient vaults, magistrate’s offices for tax collection, and the warehouses used to store the goods represented by the chits in their pockets. His own wealth sat in a Hosmyr vault, piling up so high he could barely remember it all. Despite his riches, today he played the role of a common laborer, men who had only three or four wood chits at any time. He’d tucked six pairs of them throughout his person just in case.

From beneath a worker’s wool cap, he squinted up at the carved frame of the massive arched tunnel that led into the crater. Glyphs and symbols adorned it, no doubt harboring enormous magic and power unlike anything he could ever produce. Black as night, it swallowed the sunlight. He stared at it a moment, but the glyphs were too large and shadowed to read. No matter how hard he tried, he never heard a sound come from inside the tunnel or the crater.

That’s how they wanted it, the high-born. Keeping the low even lower. Those glyphs and stones must have a special sorcery to keep the good in and the bad out.

His nose twitched. The smell had a way of wafting out and slapping your face. It was dry and sharp. He knew it to be sorcery, not unlike the kind that danced along his fingers, but so far beyond his meager power. As a boy, he’d thought that if he could decipher the glyphs, they’d let him in. Now, older and wiser, he’d walk the outer ring of Vaidolin, a hundred miles out of the way, before cutting through the crater. He’d never been inside. The tunnels didn’t count.

The crater must be silent, eerie, and oppressive as the smell coming out of it, but in the Outers there was a different oppression: the sweating bodies and strange faces of new peoples crowding as close as they could to the source of power, close to the seat of the goddess, but mostly the power that they could touch and feel. Chits. He preferred this oppression. It was something he knew and understood. Something at which he was good. And out here, he was a great sorcerer, a god.

He shook out his limbs and strolled down the lane of stalls one more time, pretending to be a customer. He inspected a purple-green apple and set it back down. The vendor frowned at him and polished the apple. Ren shrugged and moved on, his gaze darting back to the work line. He walked past a vendor with two men standing guard, each with spears and short blades. They looked down at Ren and he played his role, bobbing his head, shuffling along to the next stalls.

There may have been a time when great Mornae worked the fields with their own hands, filling the world with the power of the goddess. These days the folk in this line did the work. Those houses lucky enough to have a fixed contract earned all the chits—not that contracts were ever completely safe. He knew houses forced to the edges of Mornae society, to the edges of Vaidolin. He’d helped get them there. Now they were no better than nomads, prey to brigands and scammers like himself. One poor crop might separate these fine folk from the fate those houses had endured.

He passed a stall with baskets of cherries, almonds, apricots, crushed herbs, and jars of honey. As always, the stall keeper watched him, eyes narrowed. Ren’s hand tapped along the edge of the stall, sorely tempted to snag something, to prove his worth to this man. This was child’s work though, palming fruit from a vendor, and he was no longer that child. His hand closed to a fist, and he moved along, half hoping the man would accuse him and demand to look in his hand. But he wasn’t here for that, he chided himself, shaking his head. His destiny held the promise of greater things than stealing cherries from farmers.

Still, a man was what he was…

Ren’s heart sank, and he nearly crushed the blood-red apricot in his hand.

“I am what I am,” he muttered. He’d not thought it out. He’d just done it. His hand had shadowed and the man, more focused on reading the guilt on Ren’s face, had not seen the shadow swallow the fruit. “I have no guilt,” he whispered.

He panicked as an overseer stood in front of the work line and plucked out three men. Ren sighed with relief as the man turned and confirmed it wasn’t his mark. He tossed the bruised fruit back on the pile. The vendor complained, but his house had no guards and he’d no metal on him to pick a fight.

Ren was itching for a fight. He hated waiting for his doom to come. Who asks for the impossible days before the winter gong? He’d have to explain his failure to his handler. Not my fault the dice favored me the night before. Not my fault the drink was stronger than usual. Not my fault I’d slept in.

He kicked at the pavers and found a new spot to wait. An hour passed and giant, black feathered vultures and eagles bickered overhead, squabbling with each other for the best perches. The tall gate’s monumental facade was so packed with them it shimmered and shifted. They were a flock of mercenaries waiting for their chance.

At the next bell, men appeared from all sides of the market, even women, rushing to the work line, cramming into the space appointed for it. Ren had to wait, though, and do things right. House guards pushed and shoved them away from their stalls. There was room for about a dozen, but they crammed in tight. Lucky for Ren, Xabrin, the steward of Lor’Hesvin, had returned to hire more workers. Ren sized up the front line of workers and determined the best spot to stand out against the rabble. He grinned, thrilled with the chance to do his best.

He slipped into the line by shoving one fellow and driving him to argue with his neighbor. When the man turned, he took no notice of another brown shape next to him in line. Ren was not a big fellow, but slim and wiry, and short like them. Short by Mornae standards at least. And that suited him fine. Made his work easier. He’d never do work amongst the lords. He could never pass as one of them. That type of work was for his betters.

Rather than try to impress this lordling, he’d worn clothes that made him look responsible and hardworking: heavily mended, but clean. He had broken-in, oiled leather gloves tucked in his belt, good boots for treading over rock or field. A cap to block the sun and a hood on his tunic if it got too bright, rounded out his costume. He’d thought of everything. Beneath notice, which is what his teacher had taught him. No one with gleaming silver hair notices a servant, a worker, brown as the dirt they sweep away.

Xabrin was a good-looking man, a proper Mornae. Silver hair, gray-blue eyes, pale gray skin, a haughty refined look about him. His broad shoulders tapered down to a slim waist and long legs. Ren measured him at about six and three. Not as great as Ren’s master, who was like a god to these low-born at seven feet. Still, Xabrin was a fine example of Mornae blood, and the man knew it. He looked down at them, his eyes like slits. The sun bothered him, but he seemed accustomed to being in the sunlight, and kept his eyes nearly closed, not a wrinkle of displeasure marring his serene face. He bore a dagger at his back and a short blade at his hip. Black and silver tournament ribbons hung from a wool belt about his waist. Two embroidered glyphs adorned his black felt vest, worn over a gray, sleeveless silk tunic. He was a serious man. Ren knew as much. But he also knew that Xabrin wore a mask. All show, his teacher used to say. The secret was figuring out just how false it was.

One thing comforted Ren. Xabrin didn’t have kithaun blades like Maunyn, but he was good enough to take out this lot of poor, hungry field-hands. Ren took in every detail about the man as if he meant to rob him, drug him, even kill him. His old teacher had taught him such things, and he’d never stopped the practice. A part of him wanted to push the edge, challenge this lordling like the Zauhune knight challenged Roturra in the goddess-court. Out of habit, he felt his belt for his knife, but found his gloves instead. Today, he just needed to get inside as a hired man. Step by step, his teacher would say.

The steward passed by, leaning in, and taking a whiff of each body, deciding if they’d try to mask the scent of illness or hide their weak frames under layers of clothes. It happened often enough. One man held his mouth open to reveal missing teeth, and others riddled with cavities. A young man suffering from hunger. He needed this job more than anyone in the line. The sad fact was that in Vaidolin, the strong got stronger.

Ren was happy to be above it all. He had the greatest of masters, the most powerful man in all Ilor’Hosmyr, and one of Vaidolin’s greats, consort to the high matron, master of Isilmyr, the academy for lords. If Ren was honest, he’d admit it irked him to always be in Maunyn’s shadow, as great as that was. He wanted to step out of it for once.

Xabrin lifted his chin, the disgust of the smells, the animals, the outside world, flaring his nostrils. “I’m hiring strong men to haul rock to rebuild an estate wall to the north, along the Hesvinan way. Lor’Hesvin. I’m sure you’ve all heard of it.”

He was right. There was whispering up and down the line. A respectable name meant a respectable wage.

“Two woods for every hour worked,” Xabrin said. “A bonus of five to the best worker.”

That would drive them into the dust for sure. Best worker usually meant the man that could last the longest. Not like hauling rocks took skill, but the line seemed pleased. Ren earned that much without lifting a finger, just from interest. Still, he bobbed and murmured like the rest of them to keep up the ruse.