Yet the queen took such mundane tasks as an affront. Once trapped in an unhappy marriage to the late King Handor, Marja had withdrawn from the world into an endless parade of romance novels, where heroes were always swarthy, bosoms constantly heaved, and love subjugated the laws of nature and bent history to its whim until it drove its victims to suicide. King Handor’s death and Johan’s proposal had given the queen the chance to return to reality, but it was apparent that Marja would prefer that reality come and visit her romantic fantasies.
Preya thanked the gods that true love wasn’t that way, but there was no helping someone who wanted it to be. Just as Marja’s steady diet of tea cakes had left her with the figure of a walrus, the queen’s addiction to romantic tragedies had left her unable to find any joy in a relationship that wasn’t either in a state of melancholy desire, simmering tension, or wild abandon. Johan’s distraction was intolerable to the queen—almost more so than her loveless marriage to Handor. At least a chilled marriage gave Johan a plausible reason to not show up whenever she longed for him to come and ravish her.
“Why does he stay away?” A single tear carved a gorge through Marja’s makeup as she read aloud from her book. “Wherever could he be? ’Tis not just his absence that pierces my heart; ’tis the question of whether his heart still beats for me, or whether it still beats at all. Oh ignorance! Oh mystery! You cut at me as a knife! I cannot bear not knowing!”
Chapter 2
Ignorance is a commodity.
In any economy where knowledge has value, ignorance does as well. Brokers make money by knowing key information; they make fortunes by ensuring that other brokers remain unaware or unsure of the same information until after critical trades. Governments rise and fall based on the careful cultivation and utilization of mass ignorance. The wealthy and powerful pay handsomely for secret messages, opaque business structures, or secure locations. And no location was more secure than Adchul.
The ancestral home of Arth’s most elite lawyer-monks perched atop a crag of rock jutting from the ocean halfway between Eagos and Chrate. Most of the island was surrounded by the monastery’s formidable walls, hewn from the same black granite as the sea-swept stones around it. Yet the isolated location, treacherous currents, and imposing fortifications didn’t give the fortress of Adchul its unmatched reputation for seclusion; rather, ancient rites and clauses of attorney-client privilege and universal nondisclosure shielded the monastery’s inhabitants. Any crystal ball or scrying pool set to peer at a spot within three miles of the island would only display a curt cease and desist notice.
Behind high walls and safely cocooned offshore in an impossibly complex web of shell companies, limited liability entities, and corporate structures, the lawyer-monks’ tenants were completely insulated from any outside threat—murderous, sorcerous, or litigious. It was perfect protection, provided you could pay for it.
Or, Duine Poldo reflected, provided they’d let you stay.
The Scribkin stared glumly out the window of his chamber. The sparse furnishings and bare stone walls suggested that it was the sort of accommodation that normally came with a set of striped leisure wear, included bread crusts and water, and offered daily entertainment that mostly involved hitting rocks with hammers. The window offered a view that was only marginally improved: black seas roiling beneath a gray sky all the way to the horizon.
“How long do you think we have?” he asked without turning.
A Wood Gnome wearing a red squirrel’s pelt squeaked by way of answer. The Gnomes of Clan Fengeld, or Domovoy, communicated with taller folk using a dialect of Imperial that was actually nuanced, complex and— Poldo had been surprised to discover—copiously laced with profanity and lewd remarks. Usually most of this subtlety and swears were lost in translation, in part because a Wood Gnome’s tiny voice sounded like a nest full of baby birds to anyone larger than a household rodent, but mostly because many people considered Domovoy to be a more destructive variety of household rodent.
Still, after all this time working with the Wood Gnomes, Poldo was able to understand them well enough. “A week will not do,” he said. “The sailing will be too difficult by then, and we won’t catch a boat. If we can’t stay until spring, then we’ll have to catch a boat by tomorrow.”
Another Wood Gnome piped in.
“Yes, I’m sure they are aware of that,” said Poldo sourly.
A third Wood Gnome, a woman wearing a brown rat’s skin, chittered something and thrust her fist in the air.
Poldo blanched. “Well, I… I, ah, I probably wouldn’t phrase it as such.”
Brown Rat repeated herself emphatically.
“Where would you even get a cucumber that large? But, ah, no—look, I appreciate the, ah, the sentiment. We are all frustrated with the lawyer-monks, but—”
Red Squirrel came to his rescue with a chirruped question.
“Yes. It will be a most difficult meeting.” Poldo stood. “Not many can win a dispute with the lawyer-monks of Adchul, and even less can do so after contracts have been signed.”
A few of the tiny men and women chittered and waved their fists in the air.
“Thank you,” said Poldo. “I’m afraid I do not share your confidence.”
He stepped up to a simple mirror propped against a wall and preened as best he could. He wore a fine suit tailored by Llewyn and Dorfson, but the cuffs had begun to fray. His silver hair was past due for a trim, and combing it back only made it look like a misshapen mane. The luxuriant mustache beneath his bulbous nose could be kept in fine shape with a pinch from a tin of Vinn’s Fyne Gentleman’s Wax, but there was no such cure for the crow’s feet at the corners of his weary eyes. He polished his spectacles, adjusted the kerchief in his suit pocket, and headed back to his simple desk.
“One more thing,” he asked, picking up the eviction notice. “Did they ever give us a reason for terminating our stay?”
Red Squirrel chirped and shook his head.
“I imagine they wouldn’t.” The Scribkin spoke brusquely as he headed out the door and into the hallway. The Wood Gnomes scattered like leaves in an autumn gale. The tiny men and women moved in near silence and out of sight, but he was certain his diminutive entourage was never far away.
Red Squirrel dropped onto Poldo’s shoulder as he passed under the archway that led into the courtyard and squeaked a question in his ear.
“I couldn’t say for certain why we’d be evicted, and I suspect that’s what they’re counting on,” said Poldo with a grimace. They walked into the courtyard, the black spires of the monastery rising like the pylons of a tomb city all around them. They walked past Adchul’s western shrine, a small hut filled with scrolls dedicated to Emilveber, a minor god revered by bureaucrats and lawyers. Several robed monks waited in a neat line to pay their respects, one at a time, at a small window.
Red Squirrel chirruped.
“Yes, I definitely have my suspicions as to why,” Poldo said, walking past the line.
The space between the shrine and the western wall of the courtyard was a small shock of green amid the blacks and grays of winter in Adchul. At the center of it, working the earth with hands like spades, was a Troll.
The Troll looked much like what you would get if you poured a potion of hair growth over a small mountain. Most of him was covered in fur the color of lakeside granite. Upon closer inspection, his shaggy coat displayed spiraling patterns of gray and blue wandering across his chest and shoulders like moss over a boulder. His stony skin was visible only around his gnarled hands and on his face, which looked like an amalgam of an ape, a skull, and a drawer full of knives.
Poldo recognized the toothy countenance as a friendly smile. “Good morning, Thane,” he called.
“Good morning, Mr. Poldo,” rumbled the Troll. “Business to attend to?”
“I suppose,” said the Scribkin. “Hopefully I’ll be done soon enough to assist you in the… the…” Poldo looked at the Troll’s small garden. The green shoots and leaves brought to mind an adolescent’s facial hair, with wide, bare expanses between thin patches of green. Yet, given the snow encrusting Adchul’s ramparts and the bitter cold in the air, the fact that there was any growth at all was surprising. Had the plants been there yesterday?
“Do you suppose it’s common for flowers to grow that quickly? In winter?” he asked faintly.
“If you care for them well.” Thane’s voice seemed absent as he gently stroked the stem of a bloom that Poldo couldn’t name. The Scribkin would almost swear he could see the leaves growing fuller at the Troll’s touch.
“I just… I always assumed you were planting for… uh… the spring.” Poldo was reaching the extent of his horticultural experience, which until last week had been limited to pouring water on houseplants.
“I’ve always had a gift for gardening.” Thane shrugged.
