The Iron Ring (3 page)

Finally, Rameaux appeared in the car, flanked by his guards. The Akrallian looked left and right, eyeing the huddled shapes occupying tables in various corners with open suspicion. Tyvian resisted the urge to roll his eyes—­the man couldn't have looked more like he was up to no good if he were prancing about with a bloody saber and a bag full of heads. Yawning, Tyvian brought his left hand to his mouth. The sapphires glittered in the gold ring on that hand, drawing the attention of one of Rameaux's guards. He nudged his master, and they came up to the table.

Meeting with Akrallian nobility was always difficult, especially when this particular noble—­Rameaux—­was of questionable parentage and doubtful social standing. Zazlar had told Tyvian that the “Marquis” may have had a commoner for a great grandsire, a fact that had recently come to the attention of one of his political rivals. Such an impurity of the blood was unacceptable in the Griffon Court, and punishable by the stripping of titles and land. All of Marquis Rameaux's fabulous wealth would mean nothing in the face of this disgrace, and so he had scurried here—­a thousand miles from his home country—­to acquire certain artifacts that would establish his line as pure.

The thing that made this meeting difficult was how, exactly, the rules of etiquette applied to one such as Rameaux. If Tyvian were an Akrallian nobleman of good family but relative obscurity—­which was to be his part for the evening—­how would he greet a nobleman of comparatively higher status and wealth, who might not even be noble after all? Given the volatile nature of Akrallian pride—­a facet of their cultural personalities that had gotten Tyvian into more duels than he cared to recall—­the wrong response could likely result in Rameaux's guards drawing the blades they clearly had concealed underneath their cloaks and running both he and Artus through without even a
pardonnez-­moi.

Having considered this interaction for some time, Tyvian had concluded that the trick was to find a balance between stroking the Marquis's pride enough to keep him satisfied, but not so much that he himself would appear overly impressed. And then, of course, there was the ever-­so-­important formal Akrallian greeting.

When Rameaux came to stand across the table from him, Tyvian lifted himself off his seat just far enough to execute a truncated bow, and extended his left hand, palm upward, toward the seat opposite him. In flawless Akrallian he said, “I, Etienne DuGarre, Lord of the Blue Lake and guardian of its environs, salute you, the great Marquis Rameaux, Lord of Archanois, custodian of Pont de Mars, and the protector of its ­peoples, and offer you relaxation in my humble presence.”

Rameaux blinked once, nodded, and sat down. He said nothing, but looked miserable. Tyvian immediately hated him; his response was nothing short of offensive. The very idea that Rameaux would greet a fellow noble that way was preposterous! Granted, Tyvian wasn't
really
an Akrallian nobleman, but Rameaux didn't know that. Were he not about to acquire half this man's fortune, he would have challenged him to a duel right there.

Well,
Tyvian said to himself,
if he's going to be rude, so will I.
He smiled at the Akrallian, “Shall we speak Trade?”

Rameaux's accent was slight, which was evidence of a man used to doing business. “Yes. That would be wise.”

Tyvian's eyes narrowed—­he didn't like that answer either. “Forgive me if I seem impertinent Marquis, but you seem preoccupied. Are you perfectly well?”

“If I were, I would not be here at all. Forgive me if I am blunt, but I wish to handle this affair as quickly as possible.” Rameaux drummed his fingers on the table and looked over his shoulder.

Tyvian's heartbeat quickened.
This man was not who he said he was.
No Akrallian marquis would be so forward. No Akrallian of noble bearing would drum his fingers like a nervous schoolgirl. No Akrallian would feel the need to check over his shoulder when flanked by two bodyguards. Tyvian needed a test, just to make sure. He thought about it for a moment and then said, “I took the liberty of ordering some
cherille
. Let us drink a toast to your success, and then carry on.”

Rameaux looked at Tyvian, no doubt scanning him for some sign of deception. The smuggler kept his face impassive, but grinned inwardly; the impostor sensed a trap, and he was right. Tyvian's statement was, to those well-­versed in Akrallian etiquette, a contradiction in terms. For the first part, it was unpardonably rude to presume to order refreshment for a person you had not yet met—­a custom borne out of centuries of poisonings among the halls of the Griffon Court. However, at the same time,
cherille
—­an ensorcelled wine that retarded the aging process—­was fabulously expensive and a kingly gift, to be sure. Turning it
down
would be just as offensive, and, given their respective situations, the likelihood that Tyvian, masquerading as Lord Etienne DuGarre, might be poisoning him was extremely remote. The correct answer would be to drink, but only after a counteroffer of similar expense had been extended and accepted.

Several seconds of silence passed before Rameaux replied. “You have honored me with your offer, but there is an ancient saying: business before pleasure. I beg you, let us conclude our mutual affair, and then share a drink to our health later.”

Tyvian permitted himself a grin. “I humbly beg your pardon—­of course you are right. How presumptuous of me to assume—­”

Rameaux waved his hand—­
interrupting
an apology—­and said, “It is perfectly all right, cousin. You embarrass me with your humility.”

“And you, me, with your magnanimity.” Tyvian rose and motioned toward the exit to the dining car. “If you will deign to follow me, cousin, I will take you to the objects of your desire.”

This man Rameaux was a Defender operating under a Shroud made up to look like a wealthy Akrallian noble. Looking back, Tyvian came up with a half-­dozen signs he should have noticed from the platform—­what kind of man goes to a secret meeting dripping in jewels, honestly? How had they gotten wind of this? It didn't matter—­all that mattered now was cutting losses and getting away. As he walked to the door to the next car, he took his time, running backup plans through his head.

Once they were at the exit, they stood there a moment, staring at the closed door, until Tyvian finally looked at Artus and snapped. “Door, fool!”

Artus leapt as if bitten and quickly pulled the door open. As Tyvian passed, he whispered to the boy, “Don't look now, Artus, but we're nicked.”

 

CHAPTER TWO

ZAZLAR'S JOKE

T
yvian skipped a few paces ahead of Rameaux and his guards, dragging Artus by the elbow. Artus squirmed in his grip. “Nicked? What do you mean, nicked? Mirror-­men?”

“SHHHH!”
Tyvian hissed. “No questions. Go to the cargo car, find Zazlar Hendrieux. Tell him you're with me and that Rameaux is an impostor. He'll know what to do.”

“But what about—­” Artus began, but Tyvian planted a hand in the center of his back and shoved him on his way.

“Is there a problem?” Rameaux asked from behind.

Tyvian turned gracefully on his heel and smiled. “My attaché is poorly trained, cousin. I have sent him to prepare the items for your inspection.”

Rameaux frowned. “I would like one of my guards to accompany him.”

Tyvian's gasp was actually genuine—­the
gall
of the man! “
Monsieur!
How
dare
you?”

Rameaux's face blanched. “I . . . I meant no offense . . .”

“I regret to inform you, then, that I
am
offended!” Tyvian stiffened his back and flared his nostrils, affecting his best impersonation of an angry fop. He even flapped his hands loosely at his sides. “Your crudity toward my person since our meeting has been most uncalled for!”

Rameaux exchanged a troubled look with his guards. “My lord DuGarre, if you would only listen—­”

“
Non!
You listen to me, you insolent half-­blooded toad! To preserve the honor of my fathers before me, I challenge you to a duel!”

The look on the false Marquis's face was priceless. Tyvian knew he would cherish it for years to come, though he hid his glee well behind a quivering facade of rage. He watched Rameaux and his two guards shift uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“But,” Rameaux sputtered, “you do not have a sword!”

“Your guards do,” Tyvian countered. “Let them give up their blades—­one to each of us—­and I shall have satisfaction.”

Again Tyvian's opponents stood flabbergasted. Go on, he thought, go ahead and give me one of your weapons.

Rameaux, eyes wide as his plot—­whatever it had been—­was rapidly unraveling, tried once more. “Really, if we could finish business first . . . could we see the items you promised and then—­”

“Sir,” Tyvian growled, “we do not go
anywhere
until my honor is satisfied.”

Rameaux's face fell, and his guards looked worried. If Tyvian could read thoughts, he was certain Rameaux's mind was chaining together a number of colorful vulgarities.
That's right,
Tyvian told himself.
You
can't arrest me if you don't see the goods, can you?

T
he demons moaned in their piston prisons, and Artus stumbled as the spirit engine lurched forward. It picked up speed quickly, leaving Galaspin behind in the dark, and with it any chance of leaping off into the relative safety of the city's winding streets. Cursing Tyvian Reldamar for the hundredth time since meeting him, Artus pushed his way forward to the cargo cars.

Like the dining car, the cargo containers on this spirit engine were Astrally modified. Artus found the effect disconcerting; the magical alteration made it difficult to judge distances properly, and he constantly felt he might run into the wall or strike his head on the ceiling. Unlike the dining car, however, the extra space was the only amenity afforded the cargo section. It was a dark box with thin wooden slats forming a thin barrier between the sawdust-­scented interior and the crisp, cold air of the Galaspin night. The wind and the cries of the engine-­demons howled through the cracks in the wide-­mouthed cargo doors on both sides of the compartment, and light was limited to a single feylamp swaying from a beam over the door. Large crates and heavy trunks stenciled in a variety of foreign languages were stacked in precise rows along the walls, throwing long shadows wherever the lamplight struck.

Artus reached up and took the lamp down. He took only a moment admiring its craftsmanship—­a feylamp, they said, could burn for months without need for replenishment—­and then turned his eyes to the dusty gloom. “Hello?”

There was no answer. He stood still, listening and scanning the shadows for movement. Then, from the other side of the car, he heard a low-­pitched growl followed by a sudden thump, as though something heavy but soft had been thrown against a door. Moving slowly to keep his balance as the engine bucked and shuddered over the hilly landscape, Artus held the lamp in front of him as some kind of ward and called again. “Is anybody there?”

Silence for a moment, and then another growl, this one even lower pitched and more sinister than the first. It was deep and forceful, like a steel cart rumbling down a mine shaft. Whatever it was, Artus knew it wasn't human; no person could make a sound that menacing.

Wondering what sort of person this Zazlar might be, Artus willed his feet forward and slowly advanced on the noise. “Hello?”

A hand as strong as an iron claw seized him by the hair and yanked his head back. At the same moment, a knife was placed against his throat. Its edge burned in the cold air. “Name, whelp!” a man's voice snarled in his ear from behind.

“Artus!” the boy blurted, and added, “You Zazlar?”

Artus's hair received a twist and another yank. The knife bore down. “And why would you know such a dangerous name?”

“Reldamar sent me! He's brought me with him!”

The knife relaxed and Artus's hair was released. Stumbling forward, he turned to see a lean man dressed in a fine black cape. His face—­long and unshaven—­was impassive, but his icy eyes seemed to swallow Artus from head to foot. Slapping his dagger back into his belt, the man said. “I'm Zazlar Hendrieux. You weren't expected.”

“Reldamar says we're nicked!” Artus said. “He said Rameaux's an impostor. He said you'd know what to do.”

Zazlar laughed. “Is that so? Hmmmm . . .”

There was another crash, ­coupled with another inhuman roar that tapered into a howl. The sound made Artus cringe. “What is that?”

Zazlar smiled. “A little joke, is all.”

“It don't sound very funny.”

“Such a clever tongue in such a young head,” Zazlar said. “Now, what's this about being nicked?”

Artus explained everything he knew, which was precious little. Indeed, the whole evening's affairs were an almost complete mystery to him, but as he talked, it all seemed to make some kind of sense to Zazlar, who nodded sagely at each pause in the story. When Artus had finished, Zazlar clapped his gloved hands together.

“Excellent! Tyvian was right to send you to me. Go and fetch him. Tell him once he's here, everything will be fine. I've got a plan.”

Artus blinked. “Really? What is it? What's going on?”

Zazlar grinned. “And ruin the surprise? Now go—­I've got preparations to make.”

Artus looked around at the bleak interior of the cargo car, wondering what “preparations” needed making, but retreated. Zazlar vanished back into the shadows before Artus had replaced the feylamp and closed the door.

He couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something just a bit off about Zazlar Hendrieux.

T
yvian, meanwhile, had engaged Rameaux and his entourage in a staring contest of sorts. It was comprised, primarily, of Tyvian standing with his arms crossed and his chin elevated—­the very definitional image of restrained outrage. Rameaux, sweat beading on his powdered forehead, stood flummoxed and likewise outraged, bejeweled fists balled at his waist. The two of them had stood in this way for the past three minutes straight, ever since they ran out of constructive things to yell at each other.

There was only so far either of them could push a bluff, and they both knew it. Tyvian knew Rameaux was a fake, but Rameaux wasn't
sure
that Tyvian knew yet. The only way for him to
be
sure was for Tyvian to break character, which, by choosing to react as he had, Tyvian had avoided. Rameaux knew he was in a pickle. He could simply order his guards to escort Tyvian to the cargo car, and then Tyvian—­the contents of his pockets notwithstanding—­would be powerless to resist. However, that would blow his own cover, and he assumed that Tyvian, being Tyvian, had certain useful items in his pockets that would make overt action risky.

For his part, Tyvian knew that
Rameaux
knew that his best bet was to get him to go to the cargo car under the assumption that he was still dealing with the Marquis Rameaux, and not whoever his true self happened to be. Unfortunately, because of Tyvian's (pretended) outrage, the only way for that to happen was for Rameaux to engage in swordplay with a man who, he was clearly aware, was one of the finest swordsmen in the West.

The end result was a lot of angry staring.

Rameaux heaved a sigh for the twentieth time. “Really, cousin, you are being ridiculous.”

Tyvian raised his eyebrows. “I? Surely not—­it is you who are being ridiculous. You are a coward and a braggart, and I demand—­”

Artus entered the car, and Tyvian broke off mid-­rant. The boy's face was flushed—­Tyvian guessed it was nerves—­but, to his credit, Artus did his best to assume the proper posture before bowing to the men in the room. He failed utterly, but that was beside the point.

“Well?” Tyvian asked, and when Artus hesitated, he nodded. “You may speak, but use Trade. Akrallian is too delicate a tongue for these brigands.”

“Zaz . . . Master Hendrieux says all is ready, sir . . . m'lord.”

“Tell him I am quite occupied. He will wait.”

Artus's mouth flattened into a hard line. “I told him about the gentlemen, and he said he could . . . uhhh . . .”

Surprisingly, it was Rameaux who finished the boy's sentence. “ . . . resolve this issue of honor, I'm sure. What say you, cousin? May we forestall our duel another hour? Surely that is customary.”

Tyvian grunted. What was Hendrieux planning? Probably something like “stab them in the back when they came through the door.” Not the most elegant solution, but Tyvian had to admire its simplicity. He still had the deathcaster in his pocket, which would easily account for one of them, probably two. Between that and Hendrieux's knife . . . Tyvian liked the odds. He nodded his assent. “Very well, though it pains me to do so, I will lead you to the objects, as agreed. Follow me.”

As they made their way through the corridors of the spirit engine, Tyvian went over escape plans. Murdering the three men behind him, though regrettable, would be simple enough, but he couldn't guarantee their bodies would go undiscovered. He supposed he could always toss them out the door when they went over a bridge. Zazlar could assist him with the big ones, and there were plenty of tributaries to the Trell running through this countryside. After that, return to his cabin, act like nothing happened, and get Carlo in Freegate to store the goods for them when they got into the berth. A bloody plan with plenty that could go wrong, but a workable one nevertheless.

Then there was the boy. It was a pity, really. Had this all gone smoothly, he would have paid the brat to keep his mouth shut and that would probably be an end to it. Certainly the boy would have told somebody, but not immediately—­not until the money he gave Artus ran out. Having him as witness to a triple murder, though, and with no money to buy him off with, was a different matter. The boy couldn't be permitted to talk; Zazlar would insist on killing him. Tyvian would try to talk him out of it, but he doubted Zaz would be reasonable. Zaz had poor nerves when things went wrong, and the only way he knew how to react was with brutality.

The additional trouble was that they couldn't kill the boy while still aboard the spirit engine—­the conductor would likely remember him arriving with a companion and leaving alone, and when the other three didn't get off either, it would be an investigation that pointed directly at him. No, better to let Zazlar stick a dagger in the boy's ribs when they got off at Freegate. Tyvian would offer the boy a hot meal and a drink or something and they'd lead him out of sight. There were literally hundreds of places to drop dead bodies in Freegate, and the city watchmen never asked too many questions. It was too bad, though.

That settled, Tyvian's mind was clear when they came into the dimly lit cargo car that Artus had just left. The boy was to his right, the two guards were behind him, and Rameaux was behind them. Zazlar, though, was
not
where Tyvian had expected—­which was to say, he wasn't hidden in some shadowy corner, knife at the ready. He was, instead, standing in the center of the car, feylamp in hand, cape thrown jauntily over one arm.

Zazlar bowed as they entered. “Welcome, my lords! How pleased I am that you could all make it!”

Tyvian, trying not to show his unease, stepped forward. “Gentlemen—­by which I mean everyone present save the odious pig who has so gravely damaged my honor—­allow me to present my cousin and associate, Zazlar Hendrieux.”

Hendrieux grinned broadly. “Thank you, my lord DuGarre. If you three will just step into the car a bit—­yes, yes, don't be shy—­I will arrange for the goods to be displayed.”

Tyvian's eyes narrowed. Hendrieux clearly wasn't himself—­he was very seldom so calm or collected in meetings like this. He was usually fidgeting with the pommel of his sword or scanning dark corners for an imagined ambush. He wasn't even speaking like Hendrieux; admittedly they had practiced covering up his merchant's accent, but Tyvian never remembered him doing so well as this. He must have been dipping ink before the meeting, but his eyes were unusually clear. Come to think of it, he had never seen Hendrieux's eyes so devoid of the rheumy clouds that marked an ink-­thrall. Ordinarily this might have been a good sign, but not now. Too much was amiss this evening for Tyvian to discount anything as coincidence.