Chapter 5:
A Ring of Truth
I
Hanuvar often heard the voices of the dead when he dreamed. In some ways such dreams were a solace, but they inevitably left him feeling fragile and alone on waking, for long months had passed since he’d been in the presence of people freely conversing in his native tongue.
This day, though, the air was rich with the speech of Volani as late season olive oil, and wine, and lumber were carried by deck hands who alternately cursed at one another or made jests, or simply shouted orders.
That these were ordinary words made them all the more remarkable. The last time Hanuvar had been near so many Volani speakers, the surviving Eltyr had been succoring the wounded and the dying, and eying the storm-tossed waves as they prepared to cast off into the ocean. Today, these workers carried on ordinary duties, almost as though nothing had changed. The mundanity tore at his heart—that so simple an experience should be so extraordinary. For here, within this little Dervan coastal town, a little over two hundred Volani lived free.
It was not that their existence had gone unnoticed. It was that Tannis Lenereva, merchant-prince of Volanus, had publicly broken with his own city in the contentious months before the third and final Volani war, relocating himself and his immediate family to his holdings in the port of Ostra, the naval gateway to Derva itself. Originally only a few dozen of his retainers and employees had elected to accompany him, followed by a few dozen more Volani from other enclaves in the Inner Sea.
And then, after the war, when the pitiful few survivors had been auctioned off on Dervan slave blocks, Tannis had purchased the finest ship builders, and then his daughter had bought almost fifty others—family members of the ship builders and still more Hanuvar assumed were their relations or friends. He couldn’t be certain; he had inferred much from a few unguarded phrases he’d overheard and from information in the paperwork detailing the sales of the men, women, and children of Volanus.
He listened with eyes closed and head rested against the shuttered window of a small tavern, a warm mug of cider cupped in his hands. He was alone, for the rest of the patrons huddled about the braziers further within the building. He couldn’t bring himself to feel gratitude toward Tannis Lenereva for betraying his homeland to nest cozily in the enemy’s bosom, but he could be grateful for this moment.
He had come to speak with Izivar Lenereva, but before he did so he had wished to observe the Volani under her family’s care. Now, watching them through the slats, hearing their voices straining to be heard against the cries of seagulls and the slap of waves, they seemed little different than other folk who were free. If he squinted, this place almost felt like home, although only in the worst of winters did the weather of Volanus grow so cold.
Far-sailing ships were rare in most Dervan ports, and absent on this day, but commerce continued from the nearby isles and from up and down the Tyvolian coast. The dock workers wore heavy, sleeved tunics and leggings and caps, and had traded out their sandals for boots.
He could not long pretend this was his home. These workers were unloved by Dervans, only grudgingly tolerated because of the wealth and connections of their employer. Even from Hanuvar’s limited vantage point it was easy to spot locals casting frowns or suspicious glares toward the Volani.
Tannis, and his father and uncle before him, had struggled so determinedly against Hanuvar’s family it sometimes seemed they chose opposing viewpoints out of sheer contrariness rather than genuine ideological differences. Under Tannis, the Lenereva had always favored a different course, whether it was opposing the “Cabera war” or opening a second and useless resource-draining front in Icilia. When Hanuvar had led his army over the Ardenines, the Lenereva faction had followed the precedent they’d established in the first war, meaning Hanuvar’s victories were proof no additional support was needed and setbacks were evidence of imminent failure so funding should not be risked.
After the war, when Hanuvar had returned to Volanus and risen to hold one of the city’s twin magisterial posts, Tannis had objected more loudly than anyone else as Hanuvar and his allies remade the state, raising taxes on those who could afford them and eliminating traditions of comfortable corruption. Finally, Tannis had leagued with the Dervans to arrest and deport Hanuvar. Only a warning from Ciprion had alerted him to the approaching net.
The wind rattled the shutters and shook him from his ruminations. He hadn’t meant to be lost in thought. A consequence of growing old, he thought, then smiled wryly as he flexed hands no longer crossed with wrinkles or scars.
Now that he better understood the condition of the present, it was time to contemplate the future. Challenging conversations lay before him. Beyond his personal distaste for interacting with the Lenereva clan, his presence here was an enormous risk. So long as he lived, his plans could grow, and the network that Carthalo had once overseen would expand to become an instrument of freedom. Much like a tree, when it was firmly rooted it could survive the loss of its gardener. But at this point, that tree remained fragile. He was low on funds and desperately short on skilled labor. He needed experienced hands to build ships, and to sail them. And here, in this community, those hands could be had. But at what price? He had many times weighed the risk-to-benefit ratio of pursuing his contact with Izivar, and even now was uncertain he measured correctly.
In the months since Hanuvar had last seen her his appearance had gradually changed. Gone was the youth just this side of puberty. Now when he looked in the mirror he saw a young man in his middle twenties, which was almost the same age he’d held when he’d led his expedition over the Ardenines and into the Tyvolian peninsula. A lifetime ago. Then he had been bearded and uniformed. This time he was beardless and dressed as a simple Dervan of the middle class, his dark hair cut straight across his forehead. The Dervans themselves would be unlikely to recognize him.
But Volani might. Izivar had thought he resembled Melgar when she’d met him earlier, perhaps because Melgar had often gone beardless after the second war and had been a common sight in Volanus. Others he passed here might also note the family resemblance.
He stood, raised the hood of his cloak as if against the chill, and tucked one hand into his dark robe. He left the inn and headed into the street. The leggings were welcome, though he’d have preferred good Ceori boots rather than his lighter Dervan ones. They would have made him distinctive, and Hanuvar worked not to be.
As he turned up a sloping side street someone called accented taunts—a Volani speaking Dervan. The distinct smack of flesh against flesh came after, followed by laughter.
Someone up ahead said, in Volani, “He doesn’t look like so much now, does he?”
“I am a friend to Volani,” a counter voice said, though in Dervan, and Hanuvar, who’d been uninclined to intercede, paused just beyond the sounds of conflict, at the entrance to a narrow street.
“Are you?” the first voice asked. “You going to tell me how nice you are?”
“I don’t want trouble,” the Dervan voice answered, and Hanuvar swore softly to himself. That was the voice of Enarius, favored nephew of the emperor. What he was doing in a side street in Ostra without bodyguards or friends Hanuvar could not guess.
Hanuvar had no love for the Dervan royal family. But if the emperor’s favorite was injured or killed by Volani, retribution would be certain and deadly not just for the perpetrators, but for this entire Volani enclave, and likely even beyond.
Scowling, Hanuvar walked into the side street. Three men circled another huddled against a wall, one to front, one to the side and one with his back to Hanuvar, a short youth pulling back to kick his victim.
None of the three were older than their early twenties. If Hanuvar hadn’t had to maintain his disguise in front of Enarius he might have scolded them in their native tongue and reminded them of better manners.
Instead, he swept his cloak from his shoulders and ran at them. The one facing away started to turn. With a boot to the rear Hanuvar sent him tumbling over the crouching Enarius, to sprawl on the dirty bricks.
Hanuvar tossed his cloak over the man who’d been at Enarius’ side, doubling him over with a punch to the gut that brought the youth’s chin into Hanuvar’s upthrust knee. The man cried out as he sagged.
Enarius, his cloak and tunic dirtied, pushed to his feet and stumbled toward Hanuvar. The third attacker was the largest, broader than Hanuvar and half a head taller. He snarled and advanced with clenched fists. Hanuvar backstepped, ignored a feint from the left, then slapped the right hook away and staggered the brawler in the cheek with a backfist.
“More are coming,” Enarius warned.
Three more men hurried in from the far end of the street. It might be they were coming to break up the fight. But they might also be reinforcements. Hanuvar hated to leave a good cloak, but discretion was better warranted, and he and Enarius backed away, then ducked around the corner. They sprinted uphill then turned down a larger avenue. Footsteps clattered behind them until they neared a small square crowded with Dervan merchants. From behind came curses, and Hanuvar looked over his shoulder. The big ruffian put thumb to nose and flicked it at them while one of the others shouted his thanks for the cloak and waved it in the air.
Enarius bent to catch his breath, both hands on his knees, and regarded Hanuvar. “It’s you, isn’t it?” he said between gasps. “I can’t believe you helped save my life a second time.”
Hanuvar stared as if confused, then smiled as though a thought had just struck him. “Ah, you must think I’m my younger brother. We look a lot alike.”
Enarius’ brow furrowed. The look of concentration seemed out of place on his open, hearty features. He was a handsome young man, with bright blue eyes. He pushed back his black, wavy hair from his forehead, and straightened. “I see it now. The resemblance is striking, but you’re clearly older.”
“My brother saved your life?”
“Well, he helped save my life.” Enarius offered his hand in a clasp. Hanuvar took it while Enarius lowered his voice. “I’m Enarius Marcus Avonius.”[7]
Hanuvar let his eyebrows climb but Enarius made a shushing motion with his lips. “Keep it quiet. I’m just a man you saved from a beating, nothing special.”
“It’s an honor to meet you,” Hanuvar said. “My brother mentioned you.”
“But he didn’t say he’d helped me? He must be a modest young man. Well, it seems I owe you a cloak. At the least.”
There were two cloak sellers obvious in this marketplace. “Normally I’d say no, but it was pretty new. If you’re . . . ” he pretended to rethink what he’d started to say, “who you are, what are you doing here, away from your guards and servants?”
Enarius smirked. “Guards and servants are such a bore. I sneaked away.”
“Why did the Volani attack you?”
“Because I’m a rich Dervan on his own, I expect. I don’t think they recognized me, or I’d have heard the usual slanderous insults about being my uncle’s lover.” Enarius stopped beside a rack on a street counter beside a selection of hats and scarves. “What do you think of these here? Do they seem thick enough?”
Hanuvar allowed the emperor’s son to buy him a replacement garment, watching the while for the Volani attackers. They must have decided further harassment wasn’t worth the effort. He acknowledged his thanks, pulled the brown cloak over his shoulders, then said, “Let’s get you back where you belong. What were you doing in a back lane, anyway?”
Enarius smiled as if amused by his own antics, then started down the street. Hanuvar fell in step beside him. “Truth to tell, I’ve grown fond of Volani wine. It’s probably some kind of heresy of me to say so. But then there are a lot of sweet things I like about Volani.” He glanced sidelong at Hanuvar, as if admitting a great failing of his: “The way the women dress . . . ” He shook his head.
If he meant the scalloped blouses that bared shoulders and the flounced calf-length skirts and winking ankle jewelry, Hanuvar understood, for he thought the garb far more becoming than that of Dervan women.
“I didn’t see any on the streets dressed like that,” Hanuvar said.
“Too cold for it. I tell you, I’ve never been much interested in older women, but there’s a Volani widow under my protection. She’s aged well and has these huge, sad eyes, and quick wit, and such grace. She knows a lot but doesn’t shove it in your face.”
Izivar. Hanuvar pretended ease with the concept of discussing the subject. “What does your uncle say about your interest in such a woman?”
Enarius laughed. “I’m not talking about marrying her.”
Hanuvar braced to hear the young man say something lewd. That it would be uttered by the relative of the ruler who’d ordered the extermination of the Volani people almost made him break the character he pretended. He struggled to maintain an expression of polite curiosity.
“It’s just . . . ” Enarius’ voice trailed off, and then he spoke in an open and charmingly vulnerable way: “I rather care for her. She’s the sister of a good friend, and I promised him I’d look after her. He died, trying to help me.”
Hanuvar nodded as though he understood. So Enarius knew that Izivar was not for him and yet pined for her and felt protective over her all the same. His opinion of the younger man rose a little. “Is that why you’re here in Ostra?” Hanuvar asked. “To see her?”
“In part. There’s also a fantastic boxing ring here and I’m in for that. That’s how I made friends with the Lenereva family in the first place.”
“I assume you’ve been referring to the lady Izivar,” Hanuvar said. “I’m to meet with her myself, to convey a note from my brother.”
“I should have known we hadn’t met by chance. So does your brother mean to court her?”
Enarius really wondered if he, Hanuvar, meant to court her, in his current guise. Hanuvar shook his head. “She’s too rich for our blood. My brother said she was striking, though.”
“I can deliver his letter for you.” Enarius strove to sound helpful rather than defensive.
“If it’s all the same, I’d like to meet this beauty myself.”
Enarius laughed. “It’s my own fault for talking her up.”
They had arrived at a street fronting a wide building with old square columns. A row of food vendors had set up beneath its entablature and patrons lined up before them. Merchants with pennants and scarves and hats shouted to purchase colors for favorite boxers, calling out their names and associated hues.
The arches opened onto a wide, well-lit gymnasium in the round, though he could only see the backs of the spectators’ heads poking above the top row of the sunken ring.
As they closed on the main entrance Enarius spoke rhapsodically about watching a boxer ascend through the ranks, and how his success was much more about personal skill than the whims of a mad promoter. “You never see a boxer suddenly destroyed in a pairing against a leopard or something ridiculous like you see with gladiators. This is a real sport, not a bloodbath. I don’t understand why it doesn’t have a larger following in Derva. Here’s where you can find some of the best fighters in the world.”
While Enarius discussed the virtues of boxing, Hanuvar expressed polite interest with a nod, wondering why so many of those fascinated with sport shared the delusion others liked to hear them expound upon it. He happened to agree with Enarius’ opinion of gladiatorial combats, and thought he raised some intriguing points, but he had no more interest in a lecture about the merits of boxing than he had in gargling salt water.
“Are some of your friends here?” Hanuvar asked.
“My minders, you mean,” Enarius said with weary bitterness. “Most of my friends died in that grisly assault your brother helped me with. I expect Metellus and his people are off searching for me. Or they might not have noticed I’m gone yet—”
“Enarius, praise Jovren you’re well.”
Hanuvar and Enarius turned at the sound of the patrician voice behind them. Its source was a distinguished older man with silver hair, a highly arched Dervan nose, and a dark green robe, which he clutched closed with one gloved hand. The quality of the garment and the glimpse of the tunic beneath suggested wealth, as did his emerald studded citizen’s ring and familiarity with Enarius. A patrician, then, but not a senator, for his tuni lacked a edging stripe. The man’s formal decorum suggested religious vocation.
His eyes were a bright clear brown. They shifted from Enarius so that Hanuvar now faced the full force of their scrutiny. The stranger quickly masked his amazement.
Hanuvar had no memory of meeting him before and concealed his worry he’d been recognized. Might they have met some year long ago? Hanuvar debated his options if the man should address him by name.
“Forgive my manners,” the stranger said, not unkindly. His attitude was not so much suspicious as supremely curious. “Good day to you.”
“And to you.” Hanuvar masked his concern with bland politeness.
“We should talk, you and I,” the man said further.
Hanuvar gave him a bemused look.
“Lucius Longinus, this is . . . ” Enarius faltered and turned to Hanuvar. “Do you know, I don’t think I asked your name!” He laughed then looked once more back to Lucius. “He’s the brother of the man who helped Metellus and me save the lady Izivar.”
That wasn’t how Hanuvar would have described the incident, but he did not correct Enarius, who continued his introduction: “Not only does he look a lot like his brother, he’s just as helpful. He pulled me out of a scrape close to the docks.”
“You’re a fortunate young man, then,” Lucius said, “and I am fortunate old one, because your uncle would have had my head if anything happened to you.”
Enarius leaned toward Hanuvar. “My uncle put Lucius in charge of my moral instruction. He’s a priest of Jovren.”
“And who are you?” Lucius asked Hanuvar.
“I am Decius.” Hanuvar bowed his head. “Decius Marco. It’s an honor.”
“It seems his family and yours are wound together in some fashion,” the priest said. “As if the gods themselves sent you and your brother to help safeguard Enarius in his times of need.” Lucius peered so keenly at Hanuvar he had the sense the man was somehow looking through him.
“That may be,” Hanuvar allowed with a polite head bow. “Or it might be that my brother was passing on a common road, and I was in a large port city delivering a message to a mutual acquaintance.”
“Much more than an acquaintance,” Enarius said with dignity.
The priest ignored him. “I’ve been told your brother wished no aid from Enarius. Most people would seek out the company of a wealthy patron and make excuses to be around them.”
“Ah, well.” Hanuvar cleared his throat as though he were embarrassed. The continued attention of the priest alarmed him and he strove to keep his voice level. “Enarius bought this cloak for me, which is more than enough thanks. It’s been a pleasure to meet you both, but I must deliver my letter.”
“If you’re looking for Izivar, she’s probably in the offices.” Enarius pointed beyond the arches. “The Lenereva family runs most of their business from inside, and she’s taken over the largest share of it these days. Her father’s been feeling poorly.”
Tannis Lenereva had been complaining publicly about his health and advancing age for more than twenty years without ever seeming to lose energy or the ability to command his mercantile empire. This time, though, according to Hanuvar’s sources, Izivar really had assumed many of the day-to-day administrative duties.
“Thank you again, Decius.” Enarius offered his hand. They clasped one another’s forearms.
Hanuvar bowed his head to him, and the priest, and started for the arches.
He heard Enarius say behind him, quietly. “What a curious fellow. A nice one, I mean, but curious. Quiet.”
Hanuvar felt the priest watching him until he stepped out of his line of sight into the stadium itself.
II
Though Hanuvar explained he was at the stadium only to speak with the Lenereva family, the ticket master forced him to purchase entry, then pointed vaguely toward a back wall.
Much lay between Hanuvar and that back wall, though. A crowd milled about a restaurant tucked in the side of the gymnasium. From a balcony those eating could look down and watch the fights. Like the gymnasium itself the restaurant was open to the air, though its pillars supported a roof to protect its diners from precipitation. Bench-lined tables were grouped around smoking braziers.
A small crowd of well-groomed men in expensive tunics and cloaks had gathered at one of the nearer tables, waited upon by a phalanx of servants and presided over by gray-haired Tannis Lenereva. The old man wore a fine blue tunic, and his well-oiled gray-black beard bounced on his expansive chest as he laughed at some jest. Hanuvar swung wide so he would not be noticed.
Tannis had lost weight in the years since Hanuvar had seen him last, although his cheeks were flush with health. In strongly accented Dervan he was telling those with him that despite his infirmities, gods willing, he hoped to keep going for a little while.
Naturally the surrounding sycophants praised his constitution and assured Tannis he had long years yet. The stink of men gathered about another with power was the same, country to country. Seeing the beaming delight of the old man to hear such reassurances, Hanuvar fought to keep his mouth from twisting in disgust. He had loathed Tannis Lenereva for decades, and hearing him speak once more left Hanuvar questioning the wisdom of his visit. Tannis could never be trusted to look out for anyone’s interest but his own.
But then he hadn’t come to speak with Tannis.
Beyond the restaurant’s tables a long counter stretched, and here crafty plebeians gathered, sipping their wine and weighing the expressions and clothing and manner and coin purses of all who neared. He knew them by look: the most primitive, like the little man leaning too close to the wide-hipped woman with kohl-lined eyes, hoping to improve his current mood by the simplest and most immediate of means. The woman and others of her kind looked to profit from men of his ilk. Those with slightly more complex motivations were mixed in among them: gamblers and down-and-out managers and washed-up fighters with creased and battered faces hoping for an opportunity for glory or at least a small prize purse.
Hanuvar passed them and the back row of benches surrounding the square pit below. He doubted the seats would have held more than a thousand spectators. Today that number looked to be in the low hundreds, watching with limited interest as a troupe of clowns tossed balls back and forth while singing a bawdy song. The performers were actually quite skilled, but the audience hadn’t come to appreciate their ability to catch the balls with feigned carelessness. The gymnasium was between fights.
On the far left, beyond the back rails, a sign hung, lettered in several languages, declaring that there was to be no traffic beyond it, and, if that were not clear, a figure with a line drawn across him was depicted below the words. Somewhat surprised there was no actual guard, Hanuvar stepped through the curtain, and under a stone arch. A long hallway stretched out before him, lit by a single lantern burning in a recess halfway along. He supposed that the Lenereva clan was so secure in their position they feared little. If that was true, they should know better.
As he rounded a corner he came upon a better lit hallway with several doors, one of which was being closed by a surly mouthed man with a broken nose. His immense muscular arms were all the more obvious in his sleeveless tunic. At sight of Hanuvar the stranger squeezed his hands into fists. He hadn’t looked to be in a good mood to start with, and he now glowered. “What are you doing back here?” His voice was a low rumble, and his Volani accent was strong.
“I’m looking for Izivar Lenereva.” Hanuvar wondered if it were vanity or simply insensitivity to discomfort that enabled the boxer to wear such a shirt on a cold day.
The boxer raised one scarred fist and extended his pointer finger. “I know your type. She needs not to see you.”
“I have a message for her.”
“I’ll take it back to her.”
“I’ve been paid to do that,” Hanuvar said reasonably.
“It’s not about the message, is it?” The boxer sneered. “You wish to see her, do you not? You Derva boys are all the same. To court a Volani woman, after you gut her city. After you blood her people. She is not for you!” He emphasized this with a step forward and another shake of that pointing finger.
Hanuvar understood the boxer’s sentiment and was faintly amused by the situation. Coming to blows with Volani while pretending to be Dervan was the obstacle he’d least anticipated, and now it threatened a second time in a single day.
He was saved from further comment by the opening of one of the hallway’s doors. A young lady emerged in one of the blue and white flounced skirts Enarius had remarked about, though she wore leggings and boots as a concession to the cold, and a blue scarf graced her neck. Her blouse bared her prominent girlish collar bones. Hanuvar was reminded of an old Volani folk song about the beauty of sparrows. She was a coltish thing with the same curling dark hair and slim hooked nose as Izivar, and similar almost imperious confidence. Her eyes, though, were green.
“Maravol,” she said in exasperated but unaccented Dervan, “let him be! You know Izivar has been expecting a messenger.”
“You do not know this is him, Julivar.” The boxer’s defensive, injured tone in response to the smaller, far younger person was faintly comical.
Julivar possessed a strange name, one neither Dervan, nor Volani. She was likely no older than fourteen. She rocked her jaw back and forth as though agitating it helped her to think.
“I am the messenger,” Hanuvar explained. “My brother met the lady Izivar in the marshes, in the company of the emperor’s nephew.”
“He passes,” Julivar said firmly. “You can go, Maravol.”
“I should stay.”
“You can come back later.”
Maravol wagged his finger at Hanuvar as he passed, warning to watch himself, then stomped around the corner.
“Don’t mind him,” Julivar said. “He’s just trying to protect us. He says it’s a bad idea to leave the halls unguarded.”
“It is.”
“Father used to say if you can’t be approached, how can you do business? Izivar says it should be the same way as always, but Father says it shouldn’t, not when women are in charge. But Izivar disagrees and I’m not sure.” She shifted conversational subjects without pausing for a breath. “Izivar said your brother was handsome.” She headed for the door at the far end of the hall. “Does he look like you?”
Hanuvar was surprised that he enjoyed hearing Izivar found him appealing. He didn’t think of himself as a vain man. “There’s a close resemblance.”
“Men say my sister is beautiful.” Julivar faced him as she reached the door and put her hand upon the latch. “But I don’t look much like her.” Her eyes tried too hard to look nonchalant.
“Who cares what men say?” Hanuvar asked. “What do you say?” He reached past her to knock on the door.
The question appeared to have befuddled her.
“Who is it?” Izivar called from within.
“That messenger you wanted is here to see you,” Julivar said. “Maravol wanted to fight him, but I sent him away. Maravol, I mean. I sent Maravol away.”
Hanuvar wondered if she were always this talkative, or if Julivar were nervous for some reason.
“Send in the messenger,” Izivar said.
“It was nice to meet you, Julivar,” Hanuvar said. “You have a lovely name.”
“Father gave me a Dervan name. It’s Julia. But everyone calls me Julivar, which isn’t a real Volani name, but sounds better. At least to us, I mean.”
“I am Decius,” said Hanuvar. “And I have enjoyed your company, whatever your name.”
She smiled at that. Hanuvar opened the door and found himself in an office cramped by two desks and a long rectangular display table on the right wall seated just under a shelf jammed with square cubbies from which the tips of loosely rolled scrolls protruded. The table overflowed with trophy statuettes crafted of bronze and wood. High rectangular windows threw light into the room, though Izivar and Serliva, seated at the smaller desk, employed bright candles as well.
Hanuvar gained only a fleeting impression of the maid, Serliva, who looked up at him in surprise, for his eyes settled on Izivar.
At his first sight of her she’d been travelling overland in Dervan garb, and had experienced long days on the road, as well as shock, and grief. Today he had found her in her environment, with her curling hair brushed carefully, with a sapphire necklace upon her slender brown throat, with fine lines of kohl about her eyes and bangles below the cuffs of her blue and white striped blouse. Her elegance stopped his breath.
She smiled, and then her expression grew slightly bemused; she had noted his changed appearance.
“It’s good to see you,” Izivar told him. “I was afraid you weren’t going to come.”
She had decided he was the same person, and before Hanuvar could protest she shifted her attention to Serliva. “We’ll finish later. Why don’t you grab a bite to eat?”
The maid said that she would and then passed Hanuvar, smiling in droll amusement, as she might at leaving two lovers alone. The inference troubled Hanuvar, who was sorting through his feelings as the door closed behind him.
Hanuvar opened his mouth to tell Izivar he was not actually the man she thought him, but she then said: “You look older than I remember.”
He closed his mouth. He could still lie, but the sense of connection that lay between them had been visible in her eyes and he was not a fine enough actor to have kept it from his own. It would be impossible to deceive her. As he walked closer she frowned. “I don’t understand. It is you. But . . . ”
“Are we alone?” Hanuvar asked.
“Yes,” she assured him.
“Do any listen in? Servants? Your sister?”
At that, Izivar smiled. “No one is listening in.” She gestured to one of the chairs before the larger desk. He saw now that a black band was hidden in her hair, a sign that she mourned her brother.
Her smile was open, but still confused. “I don’t understand. Were you disguised to be younger, earlier? Or are you disguised to be older, now? If so, your camouflage is impressive.”
He had not planned to have this particular conversation with her, nor to discuss his true identity so soon. And he questioned his judgment as he considered his motivation. His eagerness to engage with her was not because he found her appealing, at least not solely. She had impressed him with her kindness and her intelligence. In her he’d seen an honest concern for their people.
If they were to work together, they would have to learn to trust one another. And thus he spoke the truth. “I was caught in sorcery several months ago. An accident, with some fortunate and unfortunate effects. I was briefly granted youth, although I am rapidly regaining my true age.”
She tilted her head as though trying to get a better angle to see him by. She opened her mouth, then closed it. When she finally managed a response, she spoke with awe. “That’s an astonishing story. If I didn’t see the evidence in front of me, I would say you lied. Not because I doubt you, but because this sounds like something from a fable. How did it happen?”
“A wizard had left a snare on some property that suited our needs.”
“And you destroyed it?”
“No. Another wizard tried to use its power to save himself, and the sorceries affected me as well.”
“But not him.”
“He was already dying. He wasn’t a good man.” At her pensive look he added: “I don’t mean to be evasive. It’s not a nice story.”
By her nod Izivar acceded to the unspoken request to cease prying for details about the event itself. “What’s your true age?”
“I’m about ten years older than you.”
As this idea sank in, her face subtly transformed. Gone was her warm engagement. Kindness ebbed like the tide from her eyes, and her mouth. By a matter of only a finger span she pulled back from the desk, but it was as if she stared at him now from across a great chasm. “You are Hanuvar.”
“I am.”
Her lips twitched into a sneer, then settled into cool disapproval. “How did you survive? Another miracle?”
“Are you angry I did?”
“I’m angry you deceived me.”
“I spoke what truth I could, in the camp of an enemy. I thought I had found a friend.”
“So had I.”
“We are after the same things, Izivar.”
“Are we? You led our people to destruction. The war was your idea.” That she meant the second war was made perfectly clear as she continued with asperity. “You provoked the Dervans so they were satisfied with nothing less than our whole city! And now you come to me, a Lenereva, thinking I will help you?”
He shook his head, sadly. “This is not about me. It’s about our people.”
“It was always about you.”
“I am the same person you met upon the road. Not some stranger.”
“Oh? So this is no act? Or do you seek for a weak point in your old enemy, my father? By coming to his daughter?”
“I’m looking for an ally.”
She apparently expected a more detailed answer and gave him silence to contemplate it. When he said nothing, she blinked in astonishment. “That’s all you have to say? Have you no defense? No spirited debate about how they would have come for us, in the end?”
“Leave it for the historians. I am concerned with the present.”
“Were you concerned with my brother?” she asked spitefully. “He said you nearly killed him.”
Hanuvar kept his tone level. “I spared him when he reminded me he had followed the teachings of his father. Who was I to kill him, when I had followed my own, and there are so few of us left?”
Her lips twisted in scorn. “I will not risk our people in some stupid war against the Dervans.”
“A war would be foolish. That is not my plan.”
“And you are not foolish? You squandered our resources and manpower in a war that only hastened our destruction.”
“So you said,” he replied wearily. “I’ve no interest in listening to you parrot these points. I heard them and their like dozens of times in Volanus after the war. I know what I did, and I know who I am. At each instance I made the best choice I had.”
“So did my father. He meant to protect his family.”
“He meant to protect his family and his wealth. But not his people. And you admitted as much to me. You’ve done more for them than he. I have seen the records.”
She shook her head. “Your family protected your wealth, just like mine. You Cabera always pretended you were better than us, but you counted every coin—“
“I needed every coin for the fight. One way or another the Dervans meant to finish us. The best we might have hoped for was an existence like the Herrenes, a client state, beholden to Derva. But if I had smashed their power—“
“And ruled their land, as an emperor?”
She was smarter than this and was letting her rage and her prejudices outpace her judgement. “That war was never about conquest. It was about smashing the machinery of empire. Taking it down in size so there was room for the rest of us. So that the Inner Sea would be something more than a great Dervan lake.”
“Now you will tell me it almost worked, and that I should be grateful.”
“I don’t want your gratitude. You’re focused on the past.”
“There’s little else left our people.” Her tone had shifted. Though still laced with anger, she sounded remote and resigned.
“No, there is a future. And it can be far brighter for those who yet live in slavery. You have saved some of them. What would you say if I told you we could save the rest?”
“I would say you’re deluded.”
He showed her empty hands. “I came to you, in peace, so that our families might work together for the betterment of those who are left. I will not wage another war, and I will move discreetly. But I will see them freed.”
“An uprising?”
“No.”
She looked intrigued despite herself. “And where will they go?” She paused only a moment, and a light kindled in her dark eyes. “The colony. You really did found one.”
“Yes.”
She gulped. “...how many are there?”
“Only a few thousand. I would give them a thousand more, if you aid me.”
She stared at him, and he had the sense she was looking at him, once more, as a human she tried to gauge rather than as a vessel full of outlooks she despised. From her expression she was having a hard time reconciling two incongruent conceptions.
“I didn’t realize the depths of your own hate for me,” he said. “Or the shock that learning my own identity would bring. I will give you time. And I will seek you tomorrow.”
“What will you do if I can’t help?”
“Do? I will find a way to free them, without you. I had planned to do that from the start but with your aid the chances of success improve immensely. Our people need help, Izivar, and so I ask for yours. But I do not need an enemy at my throat. The wrong word to the wrong person and every last one of them is doomed.” He climbed to his feet. “If you wish to see me tomorrow, tie a ribbon about the rightmost column archway up front, at eye level.”
There was no knowing what she thought of that suggestion, for her expression remained grave. She rose as he reached for the door, but she did not bid him farewell.
He had misjudged the situation, perhaps badly. But then he had counted too much on the connection he’d thought forged between himself and Izivar, one too easily shattered once she had learned his true identity. He should not have been surprised.
Still, he had seen a glimmer of hope there, near the end. He would give her the time he had suggested. Judging by her own interest in the security of her people, she was unlikely to turn him over to the Dervans, but he felt exposed and vulnerable as he passed back through the gymnasium. He neither saw nor heard Tannis on his return trip, but then he deliberately walked along the side furthest from the restaurant.
He retreated to the little dockside inn and sat this time by the braziers and nursed a very good crab stew, along with some sweet Volani wine.
As he was nearing the bottom half of the meal, a young man ran into the counter and shouted stunning news.
Tannis Lenereva had been murdered.
III
Hanuvar finished the meal slowly and soaked up the information around him as he used the dark Dervan bread to sop the broth at the bottom of the bowl. Details were scarce, but the old man had been found in his office.
The Lenereva patriarch was a lynchpin of the community, for he was not only the owner of a gymnasium central to the sea-side town, he was the man behind the shipping empire employing almost all the Volani in Ostra. His death might presage irrevocable changes as outside rivals fought for his markets and connections. Some worried a Volani woman couldn’t actually run a powerful business in Dervan society without a man acting as her screen. They feared that business contracts and other connections might wither overnight.
Hanuvar had never expected to feel remotely troubled about the death of Tannis Lenereva. His current circumstance changed that. Yes, now he would not have to contend with Tannis in any way. But Izivar’s father’s death would take a toll upon her that would almost surely sour any tenuous dialogue they’d begun. Not only would she have to concentrate most of her attention upon funeral and business matters, there was the very real chance Izivar would think him behind her father’s death.
He considered the paths open to him, left coins on the table for his food, and departed, wrapping the new cloak about him.
A band of grim, scarred men loitered outside the gymnasium, the heavy black doors of which had all been closed, apart from one pair on the farthest right that opened directly into the restaurant seating area. As Hanuvar neared it one of the guards moved toward Hanuvar and showed him his palms, saying the gymnasium was closed.
“I heard the news.” Hanuvar peered over the guard’s large shoulders and spied an open air conference under way within the restaurant. Among those in attendance were Enarius, Izivar, Lucius the priest, and a scarred praetorian centurion Hanuvar recognized from his first meeting with the emperor’s nephew. Metellus, he recalled.
Hanuvar addressed the guard. “I spoke with Lady Izivar only an hour ago and forgot to relay some information to her.”
The guard shook his head dismissively. “She’s busy.”
“I’m certain she’ll want to speak with me.”
“Come back later. Her father’s just died.”
Hanuvar was readying to counter that when the priest caught sight of him. The older man froze in surprise then rose and started forward.
The guard stepped into Hanuvar’s personal space. “Back up and leave. I don’t want to cause a scene today, but if I do, it’ll be your fault.”
The guard hadn’t heard Lucius come up behind, but he froze as the commanding voice addressed him. “Let that man in.”
The guard turned, sizing up the priest, then looked Hanuvar over doubtfully.
The priest nodded to him. “Decius. You’ve returned. Is there something you wanted?”
“To express my sympathies,” he said, “and to offer my services.”
Lucius accepted this proposition without question and bowed his head as if in polite thanks. “I think they will be glad to have them both.” He turned, motioning Hanuvar to follow.
While Hanuvar didn’t understand the priest’s affection for or acceptance of him, he didn’t gainsay it. He stepped past the bemused guard and walked at Lucius’ side.
“That was kind of you,” Hanuvar said.
“Think nothing of it.”
He was inclined to inquire about the priest’s help, but Izivar had seen him and raised her brows. Though her recovery was swift, her expression had been noted by Enarius and Metellus, who turned to watch him. Enarius still looked pleasantly disposed toward him. Metellus’ expression was muted and grim, as though he observed the return of an unwanted rival.
The last time Hanuvar had seen him, the young praetorian had taken a grievous wound to the side of his head. In the intervening months the wound had begun to heal, but his handsome face remained marred along one side by three jagged parallel lines, the longest of which stretched nearly from his ear to his upper lip.
“What are you doing here?” Izivar demanded.
“I came to offer my condolences,” Hanuvar replied with a head bow. “And my assistance.”
She opened her mouth to respond, then thought better of whatever she’d been about to say, and closed it, frowning. The display clearly confused Enarius and intrigued Metellus, watching with considerable interest. That man would bear careful monitoring.
“Will you excuse us, please?” Izivar said coolly to the others. She stood without waiting for a response, and beckoned Hanuvar to follow. “Come . . . Decius.”
He felt the scrutiny of the others upon him as he passed. Metellus remarked to Enarius that he was right, the family resemblance was truly remarkable.
Izivar did not look back to him, but strode along the side of the empty ring and on for the back hall, thrusting the curtain aside. She only advanced a few feet before rounding on him, her voice an icy whisper.
“Did you kill him?”
“No.”
“You’ve lied before. It must come easily to you.”
“I am only here to get help for the Volani in chains.”
“Gods. You brought our people to this.”
He ignored the barb. “I have the means to free them. And your family can help. I would not have jeopardized that to take revenge on your father.”
“No? Or maybe it was an opportunity you couldn’t resist, since it would leave me in charge of his business and you’d far rather try to manipulate me. You wouldn’t have been able to manipulate him.”
“No one could ever manipulate your father,” he agreed, though he might have made a dozen different and less charitable observations. “I am sorry for your loss, if for nothing else because it makes our own arrangements that much more problematic.”
“We have no arrangement! Do you think I mean to throw in with you? Do you know how ‘problematic’ our position already was before this?”
“Problematic,” he repeated. “Shall I tell you of the Eltyr, and how they had been sent to the arena to spill blood to amuse the Dervans? Should I tell you of the Volani garrison in the Isles of the Dead, tortured into digging up the bodies of our ancestors to enrich the coffers of the empire?”
That gave her brief pause, though it did not dull her anger. “Do you think I have had it easy?”
“I think you’ve had it far easier than many. And you will disappoint me if you fail to acknowledge it.”
She sighed. “Fine,” she said tersely. “But that does not mean my life’s a simple one. I must constantly balance the needs of my employees and their loved ones with the pressure from the empire, and the attentions of Enarius himself, a vital friend whose displeasure could doom us.”
“All the more reason for us to move swiftly. And we must do that in any case because every day our people live in slavery is another day some horror is forced upon them. You know this.”
He had her full attention now. She was listening rather than waiting for an opening to voice counter points.
He continued. “New Volanus lies far across the sea. It is not large, but our people live free there, beyond the shadow of Derva and the whims of its rulers. I need ships to get our people there. Deep, ocean-going ships. And that means ship builders.”
She shook her head. “That can’t be done here. You know how much attention that would call to what you were doing?”
“I don’t mean to do it here. The more carefully we move those we recover, the better. I’ve purchased land with a deep harbor, but I need craftspeople. Your craftspeople. Your sailors.”
She spoke with sharp finality. “Then find his killer.”
“What?” Hanuvar had heard her. It was her reasoning he didn’t understand.
“If you want my help, learn who killed my father. And prove that it wasn’t you,” she added with a snarl.
He had gravely misjudged her. “That is your condition? That you will help our people if I find who murdered your father?”
Even in the darkened hallway he felt the impact of her gaze. Her voice, too, was penetrating. “Prove to me I can trust you.”
He was saved from the formulation of a response by the sound of approaching footsteps. Both turned at the sound of them and a moment later the curtain was swept aside.
Metellus was the one holding the curtain, but behind him was Enarius and, once again, Lucius. All three halted at sight of Hanuvar and Izivar beyond the entryway. Enarius looked especially curious, as if uncertain whether he should be jealous. Even an idiot could have seen the fires of Izivar’s rage in her stance and eyes, no matter that she had quickly banked them.
“Is this man bothering you, Izivar?” Enarius asked.
She shook her head, slowly. “I’ve asked him to help find my father’s killer.”
“Him?” Metellus asked. “Why? Leave things to the professionals, milady.”
“Him,” Izivar emphasized. “And you.” She looked past Hanuvar at the priest.
Hanuvar briefly believed she had chosen Lucius at random, but then the priest spoke with solemn dignity. “As I told you, I will be happy to assist.”
“Lucius is pretty clever,” Enarius said, then looked again to Hanuvar, clearly wondering why he should be involved.
Before his question could be asked, Hanuvar explained. “I mentioned to the lady earlier today that I’d helped clear a relative falsely accused up north.”
“That seems an odd topic to come up in conversation,” Metellus observed sardonically. “Are you one of those who likes to spout on about their family?”
Izivar took the lead and ran with it, lying expertly. “I pried it from him. Decius is no more forthcoming than his brother. It’s as aggravating in some ways as the men who won’t shut up about themselves.”
“I hate to ask,” Hanuvar said, “but I’ve heard nothing but gossip. How did your father die?”
“I had suggested we go look at the body,” Lucius said.
“I will show you.” Izivar turned so quickly her cloak swirled in her wake.
Enarius put a hand to her arm, halting her before withdrawing his fingers. Her eyes didn’t quite blaze, but it was clear she hadn’t welcomed the touch.
“Forgive me, Izivar. Do you really wish to see the body again?”
“If it helps lead to the man who killed my father? A hundred times.” She started down the hall.
Hanuvar followed directly on her heels, the others trailing. “When was he found? Do you know who was last to see him alive?”
“A boxer went back to see him,” Izivar said. “My sister tells me you met him.”
“Maravol,” Hanuvar said.
“Julivar saw him leaving the backroom looking angrier than usual, which is saying something.”
“I’ve seen Maravol,” Metellus said. “If you ask me, that’s our man.”
“Maravol was asking for my hand in marriage,” Izivar said. “He would have been an idiot to kill Father.”
Metellus’ response was slyly amused. “Your pardon, but it doesn’t take a great deal of wit to stand up and get punched over and over.”
“It actually takes a great deal of wit and skill,” Enarius objected.
“But does it take self-control?” Metellus asked, his tone skeptical but no longer mocking. “A boxer is used to thinking with his fists. He might have lost his temper when the lady’s father refused to turn her over to him. Assuming that’s what he did.”
“I doubt it,” Izivar said stiffly.
They rounded the corner, and Izivar walked for the office door and pushed it open. She gestured inside.
Hanuvar noted the condition of the room and the open window on the far left, a shifted chair, some upset clutter on the desk edge, and then walked in to stand over Tannis Lenereva. The priest knelt beside the body.
Izivar waited just inside the door with arms crossed, biting her lower lip. Neither Metellus nor Enarius advanced past the threshold, evincing the usual Dervan squeamishness around the dead, a paradoxical predilection, given the Dervan penchant for blood-letting.
Conscious that he should pretend to share that mindset, Hanuvar peered at the body but did not touch it. Tannis’ remains lay with arms outstretched. There was little doubt as to the wound that had caused his death, for the side of his head was bloodied. His bearded face was turned toward the left side of the room, the slackness of death already rendering his features waxlike and inhuman.
Izivar choked back a sob. Despite his sympathy for her, Hanuvar could conjure no pity. For if Tannis Lenereva had contrived to get himself killed in the early stages of the second Volani war, the world might be a very different place.
“Who found him?” Hanuvar asked.
Izivar just managed a reply, her voice tight. “My sister.”
“See if there are additional wounds,” Hanuvar said to the priest. His eyes had already taken in a blood smear along the pointed desk edge, and he stepped around the body, careful not to walk upon the outstretched hand. In life, it had been studded with rings. Now it wore none, and their absence made obvious by lines of lighter skin.
Hanuvar scanned the tables and the scroll cubicles, checking their contents against his recollection, and then he moved to the back wall.
“Did any of you have call to move this chair?” he asked Izivar.
“I didn’t.”
“I hate to point this out,” Metellus said, “but it might be that the old fellow simply slipped. Old people do that, sometimes. He could have struck his head all by himself.”
“His seal ring and the ring my mother gave him are both missing,” Izivar said. “And so’s his necklace.”
“There’s a smudge here, on the wall,” Hanuvar said.
“A smudge?” Metellus mocked.
“It wasn’t here earlier. Nor was the chair.”
“I understand you remembering if there was a chair there,” Metellus said. “But you noticed a smudge?”
“Someone positioned the chair here and then their sandal rubbed against the stone as they pulled themselves up to the window.” Hanuvar might have leapt to the sill and pulled himself up, to demonstrate, but he climbed the chair instead and looked over the sill and down on a back alley. Because the building was built on the edge of a low hill, the drop was a good sixteen feet. It would have been nice if the assailant had broken his neck on the way down, but no corpse obligingly lay crumpled upon the turf.
“I find only the one wound,” Lucius said, rising, and then joined Hanuvar as he lowered himself. “Did you see anything?”
“Not from here. We’ll look outside. But our attacker was short, or he’d not have needed the chair. He might not have been especially strong, either, although he was probably in a hurry.” He turned to Izivar. “This suggests a crime of opportunity rather than a deliberate plan. It might even be that Tannis was pushed and lost his balance. Obviously expensive material, like that gold goblet there, and that medal next to the statue, were left behind. The killer was focused only upon what was immediately in front of him. He’d noticed the jewelry, so he took that, and then he fled.”
Enarius appeared reluctantly impressed. Metellus looked less pleased, but it was Izivar’s opinion that mattered most.
She wiped moisture from her eyes. “Very well. Now what?”
“We’ll look at the ground below, though there may not be much to see. Then we’ll talk to any of those who might have a motive.”
“Like the boxer,” Metellus said. “You mentioned an unplanned attack.”
Enarius shook his head. “The boxer’s not short.” Hanuvar liked that he’d been paying attention.
“I understand, sir,” Metellus said. “But I’m not convinced that wall scuff means anything, and that chair could have gotten shoved there if Tannis Lenereva was wrestling with his killer.”
“Huh.” Enarius looked momentarily pensive, then turned to Hanuvar. “What do you say to that, Decius?”
Hanuvar shrugged. “I’ll talk to Maravol. Who else was mad at your father, milady?”
Her eyes fixed him with burning intensity. “There’s always Hanuvar.”
Metellus chuckled and Enarius smiled weakly, as though discomfited at the bad timing of the jest.
“In all seriousness, milady,” Lucius said, “I think Decius is on to something. We can question the boxer, because he seems to be the last to have seen him alive. But who else is currently, angry with him?”
Izivar suddenly looked very tired. “I’m afraid it’s a long list. There’s an unhappy ship captain, but I don’t think he’s in town. Father was getting ready to fire his recruiter, and the man knew it. I’ve heard them shouting at each other.” She raised a hand as if warding away a host of possibilities. “My father argued a lot. It was in his nature. He just had a fight with my sister earlier today,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t mean Julivar or anyone else wanted to kill him. He was volatile. He liked a good fight.”
“Why was your sister quarreling with him?” Lucius asked.
Izivar looked irritated for him having asked. “The battle of every father and daughter as she approaches maturity. He thought she should keep off the docks, because she was engaging the attention of some young sailors. My sister’s not boy crazy,” she added. “She loves ships.”
Lucius turned to Hanuvar. “None of those people sound quite right. Not if it’s a crime of opportunity.”
“Maybe it’s someone clever.” Izivar’s gaze was pointed. “Who wanted the attack to look like a crime of opportunity.”
Lucius frowned. “I think that’s supposing a little too much. Decius, I like your suggestion. If there are any signs below it will confirm at least that it wasn’t the boxer, won’t it?”
“Probably so,” Hanuvar agreed.
The priest turned to Enarius. “Perhaps you could help milady determine if there are any items inside that are missing that she hasn’t noticed.”
Enarius seemed to think that was a good idea, for he nodded.
Hanuvar asked where the recruiter and Maravol were likely to be found, and after receiving curt answers from Izivar he followed the priest from the room. He waited to speak to Lucius until they had turned the corner. He still wanted to know why Lucius was so welcoming to him but dared not ask. Better to learn more about him. “What are you really to Enarius?”
“His uncle thought he lacked guidance.”
“The young man seems to like you well enough, given that you’re a kind of nanny.”
A smile briefly brushed the priest’s lips. “He possesses the capability for self-reflection. His choices cost him his closest friends. At such times, wisdom is more appreciated, even by impetuous youth.”
“And what wisdom do you give him?”
“Whatever tired lessons he needs. With many men, especially the young, the right course is often clear, but temptations present themselves.”
“You mean to keep him from marrying the Volani woman,” Hanuvar suggested.
“His uncle would not favor that match.”
“He knows it. He told me himself.”
“Yet he loves her.”
Hanuvar stopped at the curtain and faced the priest, hoping to assure him Izivar was no threat. “He told me that he knows she does not love him.”
“I’ve seen that, and I’m glad of it, because I like her, and her family’s suffered enough. I’d hate to have to report to the emperor that she had designs on him.”
Hanuvar was surprised by the man’s empathy, though he pretended Lucius’ conclusions hadn’t occurred to him. “I don’t suppose that would go very well for her, or her sister.”
“I can’t imagine it would. That there’s a Volani family tied to his own has already been a political stone about Enarius’ neck for some time, even with Tannis’ boisterous support for the emperor.” Lucius pushed through the curtain and held it for Hanuvar. “You’re a very interesting young man, Decius. I should like to meet your brother, some day.”
“You meet me, you pretty much meet him.”
To access the back alley was not so simple a matter of walking around the side of the building. They had to maneuver around most of the block and then come up an angled side street.
Rotting wooden crates, barrels, and occasional piles of garbage lay along much of the alley’s length. The land beneath the gymnasium’s back windows was steep and weedy. The fates hadn’t left them the murderer’s body, nor a very visible set of tracks, but careful examination showed them a few partial prints of heels and toes and a single outline of one side of a left foot.
“He seems of ordinary size,” Lucius said. “I’m not sure how much this little exercise helps us.”
“We can discount anyone with really large feet or small ones,” Hanuvar said.
The priest thought for a moment. “And we can eliminate the boxer. For clearly this person dropped from the window, as you surmised, and the boxer was seen leaving the room. I suppose we will have to talk to the other people who disliked poor Tannis. I don’t imagine many of them will obligingly be wearing muddy sandals.”
“Even clever men make obvious mistakes,” Hanuvar said.
“It is a bit of a drop. Ten feet, do you suppose, if you’re hanging from the ledge? But survivable without injury. Unless he had a rope. But he wouldn’t have had a rope if this was all improvised. What’s that you’re looking at?”
Hanuvar had discovered another print only a few paces further in, one clear smaller sandal shape, and a partial scuff in the mud beside it. “Someone was sitting here, on this crate. Recently.”
“Waiting for our thief?”
“It’s hard to know.”
“That looks to be a youth’s sandal,” Lucius added after a moment.
“Or a small woman,” Hanuvar said reluctantly.
“Oh, I hope this does not mean Julivar is involved.”
Hanuvar nodded agreement to that.
“We will have to question her, now,” the priest said grimly.
“Perhaps. But I’d like to continue this investigation without the involvement of Metellus. And if we go back inside the gymnasium, he’ll intrude again.”
“Wisely said. We could send in word for Julivar to talk with us outside.”
Hanuvar shook his head. “Let’s see what else we find, first.”
Lucius eyed him sharply. “I hope you don’t mean to set justice aside because you find it inconvenient.”
“No. But I don’t want to give Metellus the simple solution he’s after. He’d as soon be done with this, and he’ll do his best to shape Enarius’ opinion as well.”
“I’m afraid you may be right. Very well.”
Against his better judgment Hanuvar was coming to like the priest, who seemed not only to possess a solid, moral center, but an able mind. He still didn’t understand the man’s interest in him, but he had begun to suspect Lucius wasn’t suspicious of him as a threat at all and was sizing him more as one might a potential employee. He found that darkly amusing.
Hanuvar hoped he was making the right choice as far as the investigation. It was possible that the second prints had been made by Julivar, and that she had been in league with the murderer. Her active involvement would completely change the spontaneous nature of the crime he had assumed. But then the prints might be those of someone else, or Julivar might have been back here for some unrelated reason.
The recruiter Tannis had been arguing with was named Balthus, and they found him running sprints in the courtyard at the nearby bath house. He was alone apart from a trio of younger men practicing wrestling pins.
Hanuvar and Lucius watched him race back and forth at high speed four times, then approached when he paused to wipe sweat from his brow and swig from a wineskin.
The gymnasium recruiter was a short man of pale, almost gray skin and had tightly coiled black hair. He was in his early thirties and exceptionally fit.
“Balthus?” the priest asked as they walked up.
“That’s me.” His voice was low and gruff. “Who are you?”
“I’m Lucius Longinus, and this is Decius Marco. We’re doing a favor for the lady Izivar.”
At mention of that name, Balthus’ lips twisted peevishly. “Are you here to fire me, then?”
“No, my good man. We’re wondering if you heard anything about her father’s death.”
Balthus gave them a lizard-eyed stare. “Of course I heard about it. Everyone has. But you think I killed him, don’t you?”
“We’re looking for information on who might have killed him,” Hanuvar corrected. “We thought you might be able to tell us a little more about his enemies.”
The little man could hardly wait to get started on that subject. He chuckled. “A lot of people wanted that bastard dead. Oh, he talked a fine game, but he was always looking for an angle that would help him out. Saying he was your friend, telling you what high esteem he held you in, but always keeping his eye out for a better deal. Well, his family’s in for it now. A woman’s going to be in charge of the boxing. A woman! As though a woman can appreciate a good boxing match. They might like the muscles, but they just don’t understand.”
He opened his mouth, probably to list additional character failings of women in general or Izivar Lenereva in particular, but Hanuvar cut him off. “You say a lot of people might have wanted him dead. Do you have any idea who?”
“Maybe.” Balthus wiped his brow again. “How did he die? Was he beaten to death, or stabbed?”
Hanuvar debated whether to get specific, and checked with the priest, who seemed to be wondering the same thing, for Lucius arched an eyebrow as if to ask what the harm was.
“It looks as though he was pushed,” Lucius said.
“Pushed? You mean like out a window? Or onto a knife?” Balthus chuckled at his own joke.
“He hit his head,” Hanuvar said. “But it doesn’t look like an accident.”
Balthus took another sip. “You want to know what I think, I’d check with his daughter. The youngest one. She may look all sweet and light, but she’s got a tongue on her. And you know how young women are. He was angling her at some stuffy patrician when she got old enough, but she wanted nothing to do with it. I’ve heard her screeching at Tannis. She wished he was dead.”
Lucius gave Hanuvar a significant look.
“We’ve heard you’ve done some yelling with Tannis yourself,” Hanuvar said. “Where have you been for the last few hours?”
Balthus smiled in disbelief. “I’ve been here. You can check with anyone.” He waved toward the wrestlers. “I took the whole day off today. I’m looking in on some other opportunities and might hire on as a private coach to some famous athletes. I talked with people all day long. There’s lots of ways Balthus can make a better living without having to suck up to a rutting Volani. Looks like I’m getting out just in time. His whole little business empire’s going to swirl down the drain and I’m going to be happy to see it happen.”
“Some people think Maravol might have been after him,” Lucius said calmly.
“Do they? I’d hate to see that happen, but I guess it could. He has it big for the prissy older daughter. Last night he brought out the ring he was going to show Tannis, to prove he’d made money and could keep it. A big old sapphire. Gaudy and about as bright as he is dim. I told Maravol it would take more than a sapphire to court that woman, and that she’s going to be trouble, but he thinks with his other head, if you see what I mean.”
“We see,” Hanuvar said.
“He was going to talk to Tannis with the ring today,” Balthus went on. “And if it didn’t go well—and you can bet it didn’t go well—he coulda lost his temper. One good punch from Maravol might have been enough to drop the old man for good.”
They left him to his exercises and returned to the street.
“Where does this leaves us?” Lucius asked. “Do you really believe it might be Julivar? What a tragedy that would be. She was the one who found him.” Lucius paused thoughtfully, then added: “But she might have dropped from the window and come back around and pretended to find him.”
“Possible. But why would she have taken the jewelry?”
“To make the accident look like a robbery,” Lucius suggested. “She seems a smart girl.”
“We need to talk to the boxer.”
“You said it couldn’t have been his print outside the window.”
“It’s curious that all of Tannis’ rings were missing, and that our boxer was going to show him one.”
Lucius considered that for a moment. They turned down a quiet side street. “An interesting observation. What do you think it means?”
“Right now, I’m just scouting for information. We’ll have to assess it when we’ve gathered it all.”
IV
If Maravol were a guilty man he certainly wasn’t a clever one, because he hadn’t the sense to run. He hunched at the counter of a tavern one street over from the gymnasium, a platter scattered with meat and cheese crumbs his only company, apart from a small amphora and a wine cup. The establishment was dimly lit, owing to the closed shutters, probably meant to help retain the heat from two braziers burning near the counter.
The tavern’s patrons talked in low voices over their own sausage, cheese, and flatbread. The smell of garlic and wine and the ubiquitous fishy garum sauce was heavy in the place.
The five sailors stared at the priest as he and Hanuvar walked past. The slim, lantern-jawed barkeep asked what they wanted to drink, but Hanuvar only pointed to Maravol. The barkeep moved off along the wooden counter, applying his shabby cloth to some smear only he could see.
Maravol drank deep before turning his head to consider them. His eyes had the glassy, unblinking focus of someone stewed in wine. He stared for a moment at Lucius, nonplussed, before shifting to Hanuvar. He scowled.
“You,” he said. “The messenger. You have a message for me, messenger?” Drink had thickened his accent. “Izivar send you to me?”
“In a way,” Lucius said. “She asked us for help finding her father’s killer. And we believed you might be of assistance.”
That wasn’t how Hanuvar would have started the conversation, but it did give the boxer pause.
“He was a bastard,” Maravol said, though he spoke in Volani.
Hanuvar was startled to hear the priest reply in the same, though his Dervan accented Volani was a little clumsy. “He did not deserve to be murdered.”
“Why did Izivar choose you, messenger man?” the boxer asked, speaking Dervan once more. He straightened in his seat. “A Dervan. Tannis hopes to arrange a Dervan for his little girl. Does he want a Dervan for his big girl?”
He climbed off the stool and looked down on Hanuvar from several inches.
“What happened to your sapphire?” Hanuvar asked.
“You going to help with that now, too? What I think is the guard stole it.”
“What guard?” Lucius asked.
“What business is it of yours?” Maravol rounded on him.
Hanuvar interposed himself. “He’s a priest of Jovren. And he really does want to help.”
“I don’t want his help, and I don’t want yours either.” He glared. “I ought to kick your ass.”
“Why don’t you tell us about the guard,” Lucius suggested.
Surprisingly, Maravol obliged. “I was getting ready for the fight, see. Tannis said it was a nice ring but he’d have to give it some consideration. I knew what he meant. I was getting ready for the fight and I asked Torstis to hold it for me. Why are you looking at me like that?” he said to Hanuvar.
Hanuvar wasn’t aware that his expression had changed in any way.
“You think I’m stupid, don’t you?”
“No.” Maravol was drunk and frustrated, but not necessarily stupid.
“Come on. I’ll show you. Come on.” Maravol stepped away from the bar and raised his fists. His snarl turned into a fierce grin. “Come on, messenger.”
“I don’t want to fight you.”
“No fighting in here,” the bartender called.
“You Dervans can’t take it, one on one,” Maravol said. “Come on!”
“I’m not a boxer.”
Maravol grunted. “Tell you what. Score on me, and I’ll tell you what you want to know. One good hit.”
“No fighting,” the bartender repeated, his voice rising stridently.
But Maravol didn’t hear, and the band of sailors murmured excitedly and dragged tables and chairs aside, moving with such practiced speed Hanuvar suspected they’d done the same thing before.
Maravol had several inches over him as well as a good forty pounds and a longer reach. He also had expertise in the very specific field in which he’d just challenged Hanuvar. Moreover, he was angry at the world and needed to punch out his ire.
Hanuvar rolled his neck and shoulders as he had begun to do in his late thirties. There was no crackle of ligaments now, though, just as there was no intermittent knee pain. He had the speed and resilience of youth, as well as experience Maravol couldn’t anticipate. It wasn’t the specialized knowledge of his particular style of combat, but it might serve.
“Who referees?” Hanuvar asked.
“Your priest.”
“This is a terrible idea,” Lucius said. “Is this really necessary?”
“Shut up, priest. We’re going to fight. Aren’t we, messenger?”
Hanuvar lowered into a fighter’s stance and curled his fingers into fists.
“Say when,” Maravol told the priest.
Lucius shot Hanuvar a questioning look, and Hanuvar nodded.
The first part of the word “begin” hadn’t quite left Lucius’ mouth when Maravol exploded forward with a right hook. Hanuvar leaned as he sidestepped, arms shielding his face. Maravol followed the hook with two jabs Hanuvar took on his forearms. They struck like hammers.
Hanuvar drove a hard right into Maravol’s heart and the big man let out a groan and stepped back, momentarily rattled.
The priest yelled for pause, since Hanuvar had delivered the requisite blow. The onlookers shouted, wondering how long the Dervan could hold out against the Volani, and then the bartender said he’d take one of those bets.
“That wasn’t a good hit.” Maravol weaved in a fighter’s crouch while grinning boozily. “That was a love tap. Come on, boy. I’m open. Come and get me.”
Hanuvar had expected something of this kind from the start, and advanced to meet it. The boxer would give him nothing until he’d well and bloodied him.
Thus began a bruising battle. Maravol’s footwork was practiced and smooth, no matter the wine muddying his brain and reeking on his breath, but Hanuvar had speed and a warrior’s instinct. He took a strong blow to the shoulder and another to the chin before he caught on to the tell-tale twitch that signaled Maravol’s right on its way.
This time he brushed it aside as it was half extended and then drove in from the left with a powerful blow to Maravol’s nose that sent the bigger man reeling. Were this a normal fight, Hanuvar would have pursued and finished him, but he waited, only then realizing just how sore his chin and cheek and knuckles were. He had come to prefer backhand blows for any number of reasons, one of them being less damage to his fingers.
Maravol recovered against the counter, shaking his head, wiping blood from his nose.
One of the onlookers called out to him. “Come on, Volani! You gonna let this weak Dervan kid take you out with a lucky hit?”
“You said one good blow,” Lucius said, stepping between them and lifting his hands. “And that was a good blow. No one could doubt that.”
“No one’s going to doubt Maravol’s a pansy,” one of the onlookers called.
Until that moment Maravol’s resolve had been wavering. With that insult, the boxer shoved Lucius aside and came on with the subtlety of a hurricane.
He smashed in with lefts and rights and Hanuvar could only cover and shift against the onslaught. It was as though all the vitriol the man had stored against the Dervans was being directed against this lone representative.
A fist grazed Hanuvar’s temple and opened a cut above his eye. He tucked in a blow that caught Maravol under the chin so hard it clicked the bigger man’s teeth.
The onlookers chuckled, and Maravol’s eyes blazed.
He thrust out an arm, and this time, rather than delivering a blow, he closed on Hanuvar’s neck as he drew back with his right.
Until that moment, Hanuvar had played by the rules as he understood them.
When that hand closed he shifted his approach. He ignored the press of powerful fingers wrapping his throat and snagged the pinky and index fingers of that hand, pushing back and twisting the wrist in a sudden jerk. Maravol’s grip eased. The boxer still sent his other fist piling in but his concentration had been shattered and his aim and power were less certain.
Hanuvar ducked but even with the blow poorly timed it still snapped him hard in the forehead and he flailed backward. He threw one leg behind to root himself, realizing how dizzy he was when his balance left him and he went down to a knee.
Lucius shouted to stop the fight, that they weren’t playing by sporting rules. Maravol ignored him and steamed in with one leg reared back to kick.
Hanuvar pushed up and tackled Maravol. The boxer fell backwards onto the black and white floor tiles with an explosive gasp and a meaty smack. Hanuvar’s head smashed into Maravol’s stomach as he landed atop him.
Even dizzier now, Hanuvar forced himself to his feet. Maravol’s eyes were glazed as he sat groggily upright, his eyes at Hanuvar’s belt.
The spectators had gone silent. Hanuvar grew aware that Metellus had entered and now watched with the others.
“I just want to know about the ring.” Hanuvar was a little surprised at how much effort it took to make that statement.
Maravol’s gaze settled on him but the boxer didn’t seem to see Hanuvar. Then, in a finger snap, his concentration was back, along with a look of fierce determination. The boxer grabbed for Hanuvar’s calf.
Hanuvar leaned over and slugged him, hard, on the cheek. Maravol cursed and reached again, and Hanuvar dropped a second punch. This one struck the boxer’s chin and sent him to the floor.
Hanuvar, panting, wavered while looking over him.
Maravol still wasn’t out, but the fight seemed to have left him at last.
Hanuvar sank to a knee at the fighter’s side. Maravol’s nose was mashed and bleeding, and his face was purple and black and beginning to swell.
“Tell me about the damned sapphire,” Hanuvar said. “You gave your word.”
“Tougher than you look,” the boxer slurred.
“My dad was a fighter,” Hanuvar said. “I spent years training with him.” If he’d been able to speak to the man as a Volani from the start this whole battle might have been avoided. But that hadn’t been possible, and so this admission was the only face-saving salve he could offer.
It seemed to work, for the big man nodded. Hanuvar offered his hand, and after a moment, Maravol took it and sat upright, propping himself on his left hand. Hanuvar continued to crouch beside him.
“Why do you want to know so bad about the ring?”
“I think it’s important. Just tell me about it.”
The boxer shrugged his huge shoulders and wiped blood from his mouth. “It’s for Izivar. Beautiful. Like her. Been saving the money. Making the money, not drinking it.”
“Did you give it to her?”
“I showed it to Tannis, but he didn’t approve. I was going to show it to Izivar and just ask her straight out, but my match was coming up. So I gave it to the arena guard, Torstis, but he told me this one woman kept nosing around for it, asking him about it, and so he took it back to Tannis for safekeeping. That’s what he says. But it’s gone now.”
“I’ve been talking to Torstis,” Metellus said. “You beat him up pretty bad.”
“He stole my ring.”
“What did this woman look like?” Hanuvar asked.
“One of the harlots,” Maravol said. “I know her. Short. Brown hair, wide hips. She’s at the arena all the time.”
“Her name?”
“You think the woman murdered Tannis?” Metellus asked skeptically.
Hanuvar ignored him and said Maravol’s name to get his attention again.
The boxer’s rolling eyes looked back to him. “The woman’s name?” Hanuvar asked.
“Nelivana.”
Hanuvar pushed to his feet and discovered his own footing was unsteady.
“It’s him that did it,” Metellus said, nodding down to the boxer. “I saw the fight, and how he lost his temper. He did the same thing with Tannis.”
Hanuvar shook his head and felt it. The dizziness was ebbing, but still troubling. “It’s not him. Someone dropped from the window. There were prints there. And everyone saw Maravol leave.”
“Decius is right,” Lucius said. “You’re fixated on the wrong man.”
Metellus crossed his arms.
“I think I know where to find the right one,” Hanuvar said.
Lucius eyes swept him in disapproval. “You look terrible.”
“It looks worse than it is.” Hanuvar felt just as bad as he appeared, but he recognized that his body was already aging through the injuries. To cover up what was likely to be a strangely rapid healing process, he said, “Give me a few moments with a wash bowl and I can get myself cleaned up.”
“Then what?” Lucius asked.
“We’re going to talk to Nelivana.”
V
After Hanuvar splashed some water on his face and rubbed it with a cloth everyone remarked that he really did look a lot better. Maravol, more ashamed that he had lost his temper than that he had lost to an untrained fighter, tried to offer Hanuvar a drink, but Hanuvar bought one for the boxer instead, and left with Lucius. Metellus insisted on following. They headed down the street, Lucius walking at Hanuvar’s side and Metellus a step behind.
“So was your father a boxer, then?” Metellus asked. “Maybe I’ve heard of him. You’re pretty handy.”
“He mostly fought in the provinces,” Hanuvar replied.
“I really didn’t think you had a chance,” Lucius said. “You might have a future in the ring if you can fight like that.”
“I’m not interested.”
“What are you interested in, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Is this a job interview?” Hanuvar countered.
Lucius admitted as much with a nod. “The young master seems kindly disposed toward you, and you’ve a level head and can take care of yourself. I think that you’re a much more solid companion than what’s left of the last batch, don’t you, Metellus?”
“I suppose.” Metellus sounded underwhelmed by the prospect, then added, with grudging respect: “The whole lot would have fainted if that Volani boxer even waved a fist at them.”
“That’s kind of you to offer, but I have other people depending on me,” Hanuvar said. “Family business.”
“Oh? What does your family do?” Lucius asked.
“Transport,” Hanuvar replied. “We move goods. Mostly to the south,” he added.
“A merchant who fights,” Metellus said. “Don’t they just hire guards?”
“A merchant who knows how to defend himself doesn’t have to hire as many mercenaries,” Hanuvar said. “I don’t know this city. Are we headed the right way?”
“We’ll need to turn right at the next intersection,” Metellus said. “But what is it we want with this woman?”
“Do you think this Nelivana will have the ring?” Lucius asked. “Is that it?”
“Yes.”
The priest looked doubtful. “If she’s the thief, or the thief’s lover, won’t she be in hiding, or have the ring in hiding? Or won’t she just have sold the ring?”
He was trying to communicate something more with his sharp look, likely wondering about those prints in the alley but not wanting to say anything about them in front of Metellus.
Hanuvar acknowledged his look with one of his own. “We’ll see.” If he could have explained, he might have said it was possible the lady was the one in the alley, but that they still lacked enough information to know for sure.
Nelivana was a working woman, and they found her plying her trade at an upscale tavern. A beefy brown-haired sailor had her on his lap.
“Is that her?” Metellus asked. “That looks like a sapphire on her finger.” He swore. “Look. She’s showing it off right now. Like a Hadiran waving a fish for her cat.”
“I stand corrected.” Lucius sounded dumbfounded. “Apparently the woman’s not at all worried about capture.”
“You make the mistake of a lot of smart people in assuming everyone will plan and anticipate,” Hanuvar said.
“You’re saying people are base and greedy.”
“He’s right about that,” Metellus agreed.
“I’m saying some only live in the moment.”
“I’ll go arrest her and we’ll get some answers,” Metellus said.
Hanuvar shook his head no. He was scanning the crowd at the counter. And before very long at all, he spotted what he’d sought. “There. That’s the man we want. See how he’s watching her?” The little man he nodded at was the one who’d been cozying up to the harlot when Hanuvar had seen them at the gymnasium’s restaurant counter earlier that day. There was no missing the intense gaze he fixed upon the man holding the woman in his lap.
“So we grab him, then,” Metellus said.
“Let me talk to her,” Hanuvar suggested. “You two move in on him while he’s distracted. Wait for my signal.”
Metellus grudgingly watched him go.
Hanuvar walked up and stood at the table where Nelivana sat laughing. She and her holder looked up at him with a similar exasperated expression, almost as though they were one entity with two faces.
“What do you want?” the sailor asked sourly.
“Nelivana’s time.”
“Get in line.” The man grinned at his own joke.
Hanuvar addressed the woman directly. “I have a friend whose father was murdered by a thief who liked rings. Do you know the kind of penalty a murderer gets around here? Is it crucifixion? Or just hanging?”
“What’s this all about?” the man growled.
Hanuvar ignored him. “Of course,” he said to Nelivana, “I’d hate to see the wrong person arrested. If, say, you didn’t know where the ring had come from.”
“This was a gift,” the woman said, covering the ring with her other hand. “And it’s mine now.”
“It looks just like a ring that could get a person executed. Even a woman. Or maybe buried alive. I forget what the penalty is, really. If you happened to know who did the murdering, it might not end as badly for you.”
“It was a gift,” she repeated stupidly. “Who are you, anyway?”
“I’m the one working with the praetorians to find the murderer of Tannis Lenereva,” Hanuvar answered. “And the praetorian centurion is right over there at the counter.”
She and the sailor looked to the left and Hanuvar moved to the side so he could observe with them. He lifted his hand.
The little man had noted Metellus coming up on his left. He shot off the stool only to bump backward into Lucius, approaching from his right. The priest seized his arm.
Quick as a cat the thief slipped a short knife from his tunic and slashed. Lucius threw himself out of the way and his attacker darted for the door, but Metellus snagged his weapon hand and clouted him in the side of the face, then tripped him when he stumbled. It was accomplished with brutal ease. Hanuvar hadn’t expected Metellus to be quite so efficient.
Nelivana pushed to her own feet, but before she could run Hanuvar grabbed her wrist and dragged her forward. The rest of the bar had fallen silent. “You’d best explain your part in all this,” Hanuvar said to her ear.
Metellus had disarmed the thief and dropped him onto the floor, shouting for the alarmed patrons to get back and stay clear. Hanuvar guided the woman forward but kept tight hold of her. He stopped beside Lucius.
The thief looked up with eyes that showed mostly whites. At closer look he proved younger than Hanuvar thought, no older than his late twenties. His face might have been handsome if it were not lined with suspicion and bitterness.
“It was him,” the woman said huskily, pointing at the thief on the floor. “He gave me the ring. I didn’t realize he’d killed for it until you told me!”
The thief’s face lost any semblance of attraction as it twisted in fury. “You bitch! You told me you’d want me forever if I got you that ring!”
“You?” She scoffed. “A weasel like you?”
“It was her,” he said, frantically searching Hanuvar’s face for any sign of fellow feeling. “She made me do it!”
“So you killed Tannis?” Metellus demanded.
“I didn’t make him,” Nelivana shrieked. “I just said I sure liked the ring. The rest was him!” She pointed again at the little man on the ground, as if her meaning wasn’t clear. “I didn’t tell him to kill anyone!”
“Give me the ring,” Hanuvar said.
She did so with great reluctance, even as the thief shouted it was all her fault.
“I didn’t mean to kill him!” he cried. He started to push to his feet, but Metellus pressed his foot to his chest. That didn’t discourage the man’s efforts to plead his case. “That part was an accident! My girl liked the ring, that’s all! The old man tripped when I was trying to get it away from him!”
Metellus smacked him again in the head and told him to shut up. He grinned at Hanuvar. “I’ve got it from here. You can take in the girl if you want.”
Hanuvar didn’t want. He let her go. Nelivana glared at him, then Metellus, and rushed from the tavern.
The crowd watched her leave, then shifted their attention to Hanuvar and Lucius. They left together.
It was nice to be in the street away from the crowd and the stink of the taverns. He’d spent too much time in taverns today. It was good, too, to be away from Metellus, grinning eagerly at the little doomed man.
“That was well reasoned,” Lucius said.
“Thank you.”
“I was supposed to be the one doing the reasoning, but you really didn’t need me, did you?” Lucius didn’t wait for a reply. “You know Metellus is going to take all the credit, don’t you?”
“I don’t care.”
Lucius grunted agreement. “Metellus’ aura is terrible.”
Hanuvar looked at him sidelong. “You can see auras?”
Lucius eyed him sharply. “You know what one is?”
“I once met a woman who said she could see them. She thought her power a curse. Does all of your priesthood see auras?”
“That woman may have been right. Occasionally it seems a gift. And no, my order can’t see them and it’s probably a good thing. Most wouldn’t like what they saw when they looked in the mirror.”
“Do you?”
“I’ve learned to live with it.” He stopped in the street, and Hanuvar halted beside him. “You know,” Lucius said, “usually when I tell people what an aura is, and that I see them, they want to know what theirs is like. I assume the woman you met told you, since you’re not asking.”
“She said something about it. So is this why you stared at me when we first met?”
“I so seldom encounter one like yours. You must have devoted yourself to the welfare of others your whole life, young man.”
“I help where I can.”
Of unvoiced accord, they started forward together. “What about Enarius?” Hanuvar asked. “How is his aura?”
“There’s hope for him. His uncle thinks I will be a good influence upon him. And I think you would be, too. Are you sure I can’t change your mind and have you join his staff? Wealth, security, and social standing honestly don’t interest you? Any family obligations can be taken care of with this kind of patronage.”
“You’re very kind. And I am truly honored. But I cannot accept. What about the emperor’s aura?”
Lucius let out a grunt that might have been a single laugh. “What do you think? It brightens somewhat as he begins to look toward his legacy.”
“Most men in power hold more tightly to it as they age. Their view constricts.”
“You’re an interesting young man. You sound much older than your years. But then I sense yours is an old soul.”
“A curious expression.”
“What about that extra print in the alley?”
“Two possibilities are likely.”
“That they were made before or after by someone completely uninvolved,” the priest said. “It’s a secluded spot—a young person might come there to hide, or to play.”
“Yes.”
“What’s the other?”
“That the woman was waiting for the thief. But she’d never admit to being involved.”
“And that would mean that the murder hadn’t been an accident. I think it was. Do you think that the thief still has any of Izivar’s family’s jewelry?”
“He might. If not, I bet he’ll be willing to tell to whom he sold it.”
Metellus must have known a more direct route, for they found him inside the gymnasium’s restaurant, presenting the thief to Enarius and Izivar, who once more sat beside a brazier. This time a red-eyed Julivar sat beside her, and Serliva waited behind. The two sisters listened, stony eyed, as the praetorian positively brayed about the murderer being behind it all.
“Think of it,” Lucius said quietly to Hanuvar. “Here was Tannis, this powerful man, one who was friendly with senators and generals and magistrates and even two emperors, not to mention princes of industry. He was a giant of the world. Yet was he brought down by assassination, or betrayal, or some ancient grudge? Or by the prejudices against his people?” Lucius slowly shook his head. “No. He was killed by a tawdry fellow who hoped to impress a woman who could never be his.”
“Death comes to us all,” Hanuvar said. “The mighty usually forget that. And how small it all looks at the end.” He bowed his head to the priest. “Good luck to you, Lucius. I hope you shape Enarius well. The empire needs wise leaders at its head.”
“Where are you off to?”
“I’m going to consult with Izivar and give her Maravol’s ring. But then I’m on my way.”
“If you change your mind someday, ask for me at the court. The offer stands.”
“Thank you.”
Hanuvar truly hoped Lucius’ efforts with Enarius would succeed. It might be he could steer the future emperor onto a better course, and his disposition would mean a great deal to the fates of hundreds of thousands of people.
Metellus, accompanied by two of the arena guards, led off the thief. Izivar noticed Hanuvar and motioned him over.
He and Lucius stepped forward. Hanuvar glanced at Serliva, trying to judge from her look whether Izivar had confided his identity to her. If she had, Serliva was doing a fine job hiding her curiosity, for she was giving most of her attention to Julivar, talking to her in a low voice.
“Metellus says it had something to do with a ring that you found,” Enarius said, “and that it led all of you to the thief.”
That was one way to interpret it. Hanuvar supposed it was true enough, and nodded.
Lucius extended a hand toward Hanuvar. “Decius here did all of the reasoning. He used me as a sounding board and Metellus as the muscle.”
“Well, good for you, Decius,” Enarius said. “You’re a handy man to have around. But what happened to your face?”
“Maravol was drunk and angry about his ring being stolen,” Hanuvar said. “This ought to cheer him up.” He opened his palm, where the sapphire lay winking, and then passed the ring to Izivar. She examined it with curiosity but no love.
“It’s all solved,” Enarius said to her. “Your father’s spirit can rest easy now. The right man will be punished.”
Izivar smiled tightly, with no great pleasure. “If you don’t mind,” she said, “I think I’d like to be alone now. I just have a few questions for Decius.”
“Of course,” Hanuvar said.
“If you’ll come with me?” She nodded to Enarius as she stood. “Thank you, Enarius. I’m grateful to you and Lucius both for all of your assistance.”
“Of course.” Enarius still looked confused about Decius and his role, but apparently decided against further inquiry.
Hanuvar followed Izivar to the empty counter of the restaurant.
Izivar wrapped her shawl about her shoulders as she sat, then shooed a questioning attendant away. They were alone.
“You found the murderer,” she said. “And quickly.”
“I needed to find him fast.”
“I knew it wasn’t you,” she said. After a moment, she added, softly. “I’m sorry I made you go through the steps.”
“Why did you?”
“Because I was angry. It was spiteful and small.” She looked over at him. “But I also wanted to make sure I could trust you, and your word. You’re . . . ” she paused to find a word, “complicated.”
“Not really.”
“Your plan . . . You’re not going to try something . . . vainglorious and stupid?”
“It may be stupid,” he conceded. “But it has nothing to do with glory. That’s a young man’s game. I want to work with your shipbuilders, and your navigators, and your designers. Just as I said.”
She nodded once. “Then let our families work together, at long last. For the good of our people.”
“Yes.”
She fell silent and rubbed the smooth wood along the counter. When she spoke again her voice was wistful. “What is New Volanus like, truly?”
He could picture it as it looked last year when he’d left. It felt like a century ago. “Small and warm. The bay is crystal clear, and there are snowy peaks in the miles beyond. The soil is rich and well-watered and crops are abundant. We’ve laid out the city in a grid, and the walls rise high. Someday,” he added, “there may be great towers. They might even be silver.”
“And how many live there?”
“Four thousand and some.”
“Not so many.”
“No.”
“Father thought that there must have been a few thousand free Volani scattered around the Inner Sea. Are you going to let them know?”
“When we’re further along, yes.”
“And how do you mean to free the rest?”
“For the most part, I mean to pay for them.”
“With what money?”
“I liberated some from the islands of the dead.”
“From the tombs?”
“We have protected the dead for so long. It seemed time for them to protect us.” He would have recovered even more riches if it would have been possible to transport the wealth clandestinely.
“So you plan no uprisings? No murders?”
“Nothing that will draw attention to us. Not when we have so many to free. Attention will bring an end to all our efforts.”
She offered her hand. “I will help you.”
He took it. “I’m glad. We need all the help that we can get.”
***
Until the moment Izivar Lenereva arrived at our north harbor I had been pleased with our progress. With her, however, came even more workmen, and they soon put our earlier progress to shame. Over the next weeks buildings rose by the score. Roads were laid down, piers stretched into the water. And, perhaps most importantly, ship construction was underway at last.
In the mornings I used to go down to the warehouse near the shore and watch them shape the curved ribs of what looked like the skeleton of a great wooden beast.
Izivar was skilled at administration, and employed loyal, talented laborers. With her was a grim and quiet foreman with a scarred and weathered face. He limped, and his left arm was crippled with a deep red slash. I later learned that these were wounds earned during the defense of Volanus and that truly heroic efforts by his fellow prisoners had kept him alive during his recovery in captivity. His name was Himli, and while I’m told he bore no similarity to Hanuvar’s father of the same name, he became like a father to the enterprise, and bent all of his energies to the construction of our settlement and its ships.
Though the arrival of these reinforcements was an immeasurable help, between the twin strains of the first stages of construction and the costs of the slave repatriation, our funds were at a low ebb.
And so Hanuvar devised a scheme set in Derva itself, summoning me to assist. It was the first time I had been to Derva, and the first time he and I had shared an adventure in many months.
I had seen Hanuvar plan tactical situations on the spur of the moment, and make do with the material at hand, but until that enterprise I’d never seen what he was capable of when he had complete knowledge of the enemy’s movements, numbers, capabilities, and even personalities. What might have been an insurmountable challenge to any other man became almost like a dance to him, or—and you will forgive me if I fall to what must seem the most obvious metaphor for me—the directing of a play. For he had those of us in the know rehearse our parts unto exhaustion, so that we could skillfully bend those who had no idea of his manipulation to aid his designs.
He gave me a starring role in the production, and it proved one of the most challenging I had ever played.
—Sosilos, Book Nine
Footnotes
7) Enarius was the son of Cornelia major, the oldest daughter of the Cornelian line; he did not assume the Cornelius cognomen until he was formally adopted by the emperor. Gaius Cornelius was a confirmed bachelor, like the first emperor, his older brother Julius, neither of whom were able to sire children. Enarius was one of four nephews who survived to majority but was the favorite by a considerable margin. His older brother had broken a leg as a young boy and it was permanently stunted, such that he did not like to be seen in public.
I had the opportunity to engage with some who had known Enarius’ cousins and they were described to me as pleasant nonentities conceited by the luster of their name. By all accounts, Enarius’ charm won the emperor’s affection very early on, and there was little to no competition from his relatives for the post of favorite.
—Silenus, Commentaries