The Shadow of Theron, page 30
“I don’t display these because no one in Lighura can afford them. Well, almost no one,” he added with a wink.
Lysandro raised an eyebrow in challenge. “But are they worth the excess cost?”
The man bowed his head in an attempt to appear humble.
“That will be for you to decide, Don de Castel. You will take this one, I think,” he said, tapping the box in the middle, “but the choice is yours.” Again he shrugged, but he could not hide his ravenous grin.
Naturally, Lysandro opened the boxes at the ends first. One held an elaborate choker studded with a cascade of emeralds—stunning, but not for Sera. Another housed several strands of pearls in pristine ivories and grays. This was at least an option. But the third…
The third box revealed a teardrop pendant with a luminous pink gemstone the size of an egg, hung from a shimmering golden chain. Almost immediately Lysandro thought of their night at the theater, and how Sera had stolen his breath away in a glistening gown the color of a gilded rose.
“It’s a sapphire,” the owner supplied when Lysandro didn’t speak. “From the Selonia region. The color is exceptional. In quality, it’s one of a kind.”
Just like her.
Lysandro conceded to the man’s prognostication.
The jeweler smiled. “As I said, Signor, I’ve been waiting a long time for you to grace my doorstep. I’m glad this piece will finally receive the attention it deserves.”
Lysandro parted with a not insignificant portion of his fortune and made his way home, where another surprise awaited him. His father’s coach stood paused at the entryway. Sitting on his front steps was the man himself.
“You’re back earlier than I expected,” Lysandro said.
“The chief magistrate didn’t wish to waste any time.”
Lysandro’s head shot up as if a great weight were suddenly lifted from his shoulders. “You brought him then?”
Elias nodded. “As good as.”
“Excellent. Things have gotten quite a bit worse since you left.”
“I don’t want to even imagine.”
“Come inside,” Lysandro said as he held open the door and bade Marta bring them lunch. He didn’t rest as easy in the knowledge of the chief magistrate’s impending arrival as he thought he would. The more he thought about it, the more it worried him. What could the chief magistrate do that the high priestess couldn’t? He was not the superior warrior by any measure.
By that logic, were there any who could challenge Marek now, and succeed?
He felt a tugging in his chest, an urgent nagging that made uncomfortable suggestions. There was too much to risk now, confronting Marek alone. It had already proved fatal once, if not for the Goddess’s intercession.
But Lysandro had escalated things with Marek to such a reckless degree. Locking him away would not stop the spread of his wickedness through Lighura like a cancer, and Marek would not be long for his cage. If anything, Lysandro feared that the worst was still ahead of him. He couldn’t shake the sense that, for Marek to be truly stripped of his power (and his life), Lysandro would have to be the one to do it.
His father concluded his tale and partook of the cold side of lamb and hard, pungent cheese laid out.
“The only foreseeable problem will be finding Marek’s replacement,” he said. “It will be a tall order to restore confidence in his office, and I suspect the corruption goes all the way down.”
A bit of meat got stuck in Lysandro’s throat, and he had to force it down. The tang of blood on his tongue turned rancid.
“The sacred window has been restored,” he said.
“Yes, I saw. Marvelous work that.”
Marvelous indeed.
Elias cleared his throat. “I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been to the jeweler’s.”
Lysandro felt the corners of his mouth quirk upward. “I have.”
“I’d ask to see it, but bad luck and all that. I take it then, that things are progressing well?”
Lysandro could hear the restraint in his father’s voice. He wanted to ask a lot more than that. He was worse than a schoolboy with that eager look on his face, ready to wade knee-deep into his son’s romantic affairs.
Somehow, Lysandro no longer minded.
“They’re progressing wonderfully,” he answered.
His parent’s smile widened as he wolfed down his meal. “Happy to hear it.”
“Do you have plans tonight?” Lysandro asked.
“No. Should I?”
“There’s a play to mark the end of the festival. Sera is singing in it. She has the voice of an angel.”
“Does she? Who is she to play?”
Lysandro grinned. “An army captain.”
Elias stopped chewing. “A what?”
“It’s a new play, by the doge of Mirêne. Join me later?”
Elias swallowed. “Well. It certainly sounds interesting.”
“It will be that, at least.”
22
Lothan slept poorly on the sparse pallet of hay Jenner kept hidden in a sub-level of his house. The damp coming off the walls aggravated his shoulder. It was on the mend, finally, but only on account of the two men the Shadow had cut down. They’d been the best brawn Lothan had after losing Jair. Now he was left with a bunch of wiry nitwits.
The thing that really set his blood boiling was the silence his enemies kept. Their high priestess was dead, bled out in glorious fashion over the sacred altar. He had expected mourning bells and weeping and people throwing their arms up fruitlessly to the sky for succor. Any one of those would have made the destruction to his office and his body worth it.
But there had been nothing. The day had dawned just as it did on any other, the mass of them ignorant of his triumph.
He didn’t know what those witches were playing at.
The minute he realized the temple was concealing their loss, he’d sent Jenner to sniff around. That was more than two hours ago. He’d already decided he would snap Jenner’s neck and give his shoulder the extra push to knit itself together when the deputy stumbled through the door. His face was so pale and his eyes so wild, he looked like he’d seen a ghost.
“Well?”
“Umm...ummm...”
“For fuck’s sake what is it?!”
“The w-window, Lord Lothan. It’s…back.”
Impossible.
Lothan bolted through the door and set off on the main road, not bothering about the clods scrambling after him.
“You better let me out here.”
Aleksander pulled back the curtain of Elias’s carriage and peered at the tavern about half a mile down the road.
“We’re half a day yet from Lighura,” Elias said.
“I’ll hire a horse. I can at least try to maintain the appearance that I’ve come of my own accord.”
Elias leaned back in his seat. “Of course.”
The chief magistrate turned back to him as he descended the steps of the carriage. “I won’t run, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“It was the furthest thing from my mind.”
“Sure it was.”
“My home and my table are open to you, as always,” Elias said. He closed the door and ordered the coachman to drive on.
The tavern was crowded at midday, but with a little effort, Aleksander found a seat and dug in to a portion of boiled chicken and carrots served alongside a robust wine.
He attracted some attention; more precisely, the gold pin on his vest that marked him as Chief Magistrate did. A group of toughs in the back corner eyed him, though they pretended not to, checking on him every so often as they consumed their meal. They were big and nasty-looking, and just what he needed at the moment.
He left his seat and made his way over, keeping the accusatory glare he’d honed over the years trained on the one who had been spying on him from over his shoulder.
“Something bothering you?” Aleksander asked.
In tell-tale fashion, the man’s gaze, marred by a jagged scar stretching down from his left temple, dropped to the pin for a flicker of an instant before rising again to meet his stare.
“Not a thing.”
“No, Honor,” the one tucked into the very corner of the room answered. “Just playing a friendly game of cards, we are.”
Aleksander doubted that, but he didn’t care. “I’ve got a job for you. If you’re any good at it, it might even be long-term.” He tossed money on the table—twice as much as was in the pot.
The men seated round stared at the coins hungrily. It was the one closet to the magistrate who asked: “What we gotta do?”
“Not much more than you’re doing now. Follow me to Lighura. When we get there, stand behind me and look mean.”
The man’s face turned into a snarl.
Aleksander nodded. “Like that.”
They deliberated in silent glances. It was only a moment before the five of them quit their seats, taking the money on the table with them.
Aleksander passed through the gates of Lighura with his makeshift army behind him, ducking his head to avoid the bright decorations strung across the entry to the village.
Underneath the banners and paper lanterns, he saw a notice from Marek’s office, offering a reward for information about someone impersonating Theron. All the things Elias had accused Marek of were listed on the notice. A measure of relief crossed his mind at the possibility that someone other than his appointee was responsible for Lighura’s troubles. Deep in his gut though, he knew better.
As these thoughts swirled the lunch in his stomach, he spied Lothan ahead on his left, surrounded by a half dozen of his deputies. A chill wind raced across his skin at the sight of him. He shook it off, convinced himself that it was all in his head, that time had magnified his last encounter with Marek in his mind. Aleks was not the man he used to be. The weight of its authority felt right on his shoulders.
Marek had his back to him. Aleksander called out with a voice full of gravel.
“Lothan Marek—”
He turned at the sound of his name, and found the chief magistrate glaring at him. So. The old de Castel had been able to pressure him into coming after all. Lothan smoothed away the scowl on his face before it had time to fully form.
“Yes?” he answered in a calm, unaffected tone.
“You’ve been accused of a series of high crimes, and you must answer.”
“Of course. Shall we go to my office?”
Onlookers gasped and murmured as Lothan led him down the road to the wreckage he had yet to clear.
“What in six hells…”
“After you, Chief Magistrate,” Lothan said, gesturing grandly toward the blistered wood that used to be the door.
Aleksander shivered with rage. “You’ll give me a straight answer, Marek. What in Arun’s name happened here?”
Lothan maintained his eerie calm, which incensed the chief magistrate all the more.
“Surely you don’t think I destroyed my own office,” Lothan said.
“Don’t tell me what to think. If things have gotten to this point, you’re still to blame. You’re the keeper of the peace, are you not?”
Lothan had no ready response for that.
The chief magistrate’s cheeks turned a mottled purple. “The courthouse, then. Move it!”
His deputies made to follow them, but the chief magistrate shot them a hard stare. “Back off.”
The men Aleksander had brought with him took that as their cue, and stood closer to him. They had the desired effect, rooting Lothan’s deputies in place.
Lothan turned his head in the direction of his men. He barely registered that they were there. Confusion swept over them, but they kept their distance as Lothan walked ahead of the chief magistrate toward the courthouse.
Lothan didn’t mind the stares. He relished them, the fear imprinted on their faces long past due. But one face in particular caught his eye.
Across the way, still as stone, stood Lysandro de Castel. His hard glare was more than Lothan thought possible for him to muster. But the young don’s eyes kept level with him as he and his captor crossed the square. He was rooted to the ground, and it put Lothan’s hackles up. If he didn’t know any better, he would have said that Lysandro was poised to strike. There was something in his expression that seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it. There was an iron will to the grim set of his mouth he had not seen before. It rattled him, and he turned away from it.
They passed beneath the restored window. Nausea overwhelmed him. Its very existence made a mockery of him. He thought he saw a grin in the hero’s countenance. The pain in his side flared.
What right did de Castel have to be so smug? It took no strength or cunning to call upon his aging father to drag the chief magistrate down here against his will.
It was against his will. Lothan felt the man’s reluctance reverberating off his skin. He could use that.
As for Lysandro: he’d get his. Imagining how sweet it was going to be put a wicked smile on Lothan’s face. He aimed it at his rival and bared his teeth.
The sun dipped beneath the horizon as the chief magistrate put Marek in a courthouse cell reserved for those standing trial. He didn’t make a fuss. Aleksander was grateful for that.
He stepped outside to face an even larger crowd than the one that had followed him through the square. They stopped chattering amongst themselves and looked up when they saw him.
“Starting tomorrow, anyone who wishes to speak against Lothan Marek is asked to come forward. All will be heard.”
He closed the front door again and barred it. At his elbow was Gareth, the largest of the men he’d picked up from the tavern, the one whose nervous behavior had first caught his attention.
“Anything else you need?” he asked.
“Why, you want to stay on?”
The hulking man shrugged. “It’s as good a way as any to make a living.”
The respect from standing with the magistrate isn’t too bad, either, Aleksander mused.
“I need two teams of two watching him throughout the night.”
Gareth raised an eyebrow. “He the magistrate here?”
“He was.”
“And he needs eyes all night?”
“In pairs,” Aleksander repeated. “Don’t underestimate him. I’ll pay you at a junior deputy’s salary.”
“Mmm. His job, though…”
“Will go to the right man.”
Gareth thought it over. “We’ll figure out the shifts.”
“Good. No one comes in or out except me.”
The man grunted his assent.
Being a magistrate only required someone willing to follow the law and ensure others did the same. He’d learned a long time ago: no one knows the law better than a criminal. And no one is better at catching criminals than one who knows their trade.
Who knows, he thought, I might have found the right man already.
With nothing to do until morning, Aleksander found himself wanting a drink. He remembered Elias’s offer; he always kept an excellent bottle of port handy. But Aleks couldn’t ignore the optics. He’d have to rent a room at the inn. But for tonight, at least, the chair in the back office would do.
23
The moment he crossed the threshold of the playhouse, Lysandro was transported. The lights were down low; they gave off just enough illumination for the patrons to find their seats. The orchestra was already playing a soft melody. It was probing and mysterious, as if they were discovering the music, rather than creating it.
“Don de Castel. What a surprise to see you here.”
Lysandro and his father turned to find Sera’s parents entering the row behind them.
“Good evening.” Elias answered for them both when it became clear that Lysandro had no interest in conversing with Don Carlo.
“You must be so proud of your daughter’s theatrical accomplishments,” Elias said.
“Oh yes,” Doña Alvaró replied. “We had no idea that such esteemed connections were to be a part of her education. Imagine—a doge!”
Elias and Lysandro exchanged an awkward look. Just as the woman seemed to realize her misstep, Elias said, “Enjoy the show, Signora. Signor,” and turned back around to take his seat. Lysandro couldn’t suppress a wry smile.
Elias absorbed his surroundings. “I must say, the show hasn’t begun yet, but already the tone is quite different from what I’m used to.”
“That’s the point. It’s striving for unprecedented realism.”
“I’ve heard of it, but not experienced it.”
“It’s become quite popular in Mirêne.”
“Under the doge’s direction.”
“Mmhmm.”
“This doge—is he going to cause a problem for you?”
“Not at all.”
Lysandro glanced down at his program. It described the play as performed in three acts: The Seduction, the War, and the Reception. It did little to spur the imagination for such an obviously lavish production. Perhaps that was part of its mystique. Lysandro didn’t pretend to understand Fabien’s reasons for the things he did. But he was a kind and generous soul, and saw only possibility when he looked upon the world. Lysandro couldn’t help but like him.
Elias leaned back in his seat, mollified by Lysandro’s quick answer. “It’s good, to be doing this. Arun knows the village needs to forget its worries for the night. Marek was taken into custody, did you hear?”
“I saw.”
“It will be interesting to hear what he has to say for himself. Do you think Theron’s Shadow might be convinced to testify?”
Before Lysandro could absorb his father’s question, the theater went dark, and he heard the reedy noise of the pipes popular in the markets of Maghreve thread its way into the melody. Its twang became overwhelming until it was the only instrument playing. Its master, kneeling on the floor, appeared at the left edge of the stage as the curtain rose. A soft golden glow lit the stage, thickly laid with rich carpets and an abundance of silver trays and goblets. From Fabien’s personal treasure horde, Lysandro imagined. A pale luminous fabric graced the edges of the scene, inviting the audience into the desert caravan at the close of a meal.
