The man waved Granger through. ‘Truan’s wing,’ he said.
His wing?
Granger stepped through the door and into a large, opulent lounge in which velvet chairs, sofas and polished hardwood tables had been artfully arranged on Valcinder rugs. Carved bone chandeliers depended from the high ceilings, while the tall windows on his left overlooked one of Ethugra’s grander canals and the facade of another Imperial jail on the opposite bank. Latticeworks of iron covered those windows, yet even these were ornate and painted white. As surprising as all this was to Granger, his attention was nevertheless grabbed by the opposite, innermost wall of the room. He’d never seen anything like it before.
A score of alcoves lined this wall, each sealed by a massive plate of glass and filled with a different type of brine. Granger recognized the tea-coloured water of the Mare Lux, the dark red Mare Regis brine and that painful green ichor that composed so much of the seas around Valcinder. But there were other colours too – the blues and purples and the soft golds of those weird and distant oceans that he had only heard mentioned in tales.
Within all of these alcoves were oleas.
Each species had been segregated from the others. There were wondrous, ghostly things with tendrils like wisps of fog, and fat brown jellies that looked like pickled brains. In one alcove, schools of tiny quick-moving motes gave off a queer electric luminance, while in the next hung an enormous bloated crimson shape among whose folds Granger thought he could discern an eye. He had an odd sensation that it was watching him.
‘Marvellous, aren’t they?’
Truan, for it must have been he, had entered the chamber through another door. He was a tall, lean man with a long, cadaverous face. He wore a padded gold tunic embroidered with steel wire in the latest Losotan fashion, and white hose that only served to exaggerate his skeletal appearance. Brine spots stippled the backs of his hands. His green eyes regarded Granger with vigour and intelligence. He dismissed Granger’s companion with a wave and waited until the man had closed the door behind him.
‘Would that I could have them fight each other,’ he said, indicating the creatures in the flooded alcoves. ‘But olea are far too valuable to waste in sport. That hexen midurai is one of only three known specimens in existence.’ He pointed at the large crimson jelly. ‘From its size, I estimate it to be over sixteen hundred years old. And these,’ he waved a hand at several unremarkable ochre lumps floating in a tank of yellow brine, ‘are hexen parasitae from the Sea of Dragons. They way they breed is as remarkable as it is hideous. Even the Drowned avoid them.’
‘You know why I’m here,’ Granger said.
The Evensraumer nodded, then gestured for his guest to sit on one of the sofas. ‘Would you care for some wine, Mr Swinekicker?’
Granger looked at the sofa with distaste. He shook his head.
‘Tea, then? I don’t often get the chance to converse with outsiders.’
‘No.’
Truan smiled. ‘I can see from your expression that you disapprove of my lifestyle.’
‘You’re supposed to be a prisoner here.’
Truan’s eyes narrowed. ‘I am a prisoner here, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s true that my wealth affords me certain luxuries and allows me to pursue my interests, but walls are walls. I will remain here until the emperor decrees otherwise, while you are free to leave the city whenever you choose.’
Granger thought about his waterlogged boat, but said nothing. He set his parcel down on a nearby table and began to unwrap it. He was surprised to find that his heart was racing.
Truan hovered nearby, eyeing the amphora with interest as it was revealed. Finally he strolled over, leaned across the table and squinted at the markings etched into the clay. He turned the jar a little to one side, frowning. ‘Is this a joke, sir?’ he said.
Granger felt his heart grow cold. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s a wine amphora.’
A sudden awful realization gripped Granger as he stared down at the lump of pottery they’d dredged up. Creedy. Creedy had decided which canals to search. Creedy had identified the find. Creedy had found the buyer. And Creedy had brought him here, away from his home. Anger coiled inside him. He was about to turn and leave when his pragmatic side urged him to stop. Might the Evensraumer not simply be lying to lower the price? He swallowed his rage. ‘If it’s of no value,’ he said, ‘I’ll take it elsewhere.’
Truan continued to study the object. ‘Unmer wine is of some value,’ he said, ‘provided it has not been exposed to the air. I suppose I could offer you twenty gilders. But not a coin more. Frankly, I’d be doing you a favour.’
‘Forget it.’ Granger picked up the amphora.
‘Thirty, then,’ Truan said. ‘That’s five more than the market price.’
Granger began walking towards the door.
‘Thirty-five,’ Truan called after him. ‘My final offer.’
Granger reached the door, and turned the handle. It was locked. He hammered his fist against the iron barred wood.
‘Very well,’ Truan said. ‘My jailers charge me exorbitant commission on anything I order. I’ll give you fifty for the wine if you don’t tell a soul. You are robbing me blind, after all, and I won’t have my other suppliers hear of it.’
Granger turned to look at the other man. Fifty? For a jug of wine? Truan seemed unusually keen to get his hands on such a worthless artefact. And yet his instincts continued to gnaw at him. Something is wrong here. The amphora, the buyer, it was all too convenient for Creedy. And there was something else, something about Truan that bothered him. This man was no trader, that much was clear. He had raised his price three times before Granger had even reached the door. After all, they had both been captive in that room. Granger wasn’t going anywhere until the jailer came to release him, and Truan would have been well aware of that. Not even the poorest Losotan merchant, much less one as rich and successful as Truan purported to be, would have made such a mistake. But if he wasn’t who he said he was, then who was he?
Granger had his suspicions. ‘Perhaps I’ll have that tea after all,’ he said.
Truan smiled again and waved Granger back to the sofa. Then he strolled across the room and pulled a bell chord. Chimes sounded in the hall outside. Granger took a seat and waited with the sealed amphora in his arms. A fortune or a pittance waited within.
‘Which part of Evensraum are you from?’ Granger asked.
‘Deslorn,’ Truan replied.
‘A shame what happened there. The typhoid, I mean.’
‘I believe it was cholera,’ Truan said. ‘We left the place long before the city filled with refugees. One of the benefits of being in shipping is that one owns ships.’
Air bubbled up through one of the jellyfish tanks. The pale blue creatures inside shivered.
‘I had family in Weaverbrook,’ Granger said.
Truan raised his eyebrows. ‘I had no idea you hailed from that part of the world, Mr Swinekicker.’
A key clicked in the lock. The jailer came in carrying a tray of tea.
‘Haven’t been back to see them in a while,’ Granger said.
‘I can sympathize,’ Truan said. ‘Nothing is more important than family.’
The jailer set the tea down on the table. ‘Anything else, sir?’
‘That will be all,’ Truan replied.
Granger looked at the jailer’s tattoos. ‘This can’t be easy for you,’ he said. ‘A man with a history like yours, running around like a boot boy after his master?’
The jailer glanced at Truan and back at Granger, and in that moment Granger finally understood Truan’s real identity.
He grabbed the amphora and leaped to his feet, barging past the jailer and knocking him off his feet. He raced down the stairs and was halfway towards the front door before he heard angry shouts and footfalls coming from behind. Evidently the jailer had recovered enough to come after him. Granger ran on, his chest cramping at the sudden exertion. His scarred lungs were not used to such exercise. The air seemed full of acid, but he ignored it. The bitter taste in his throat was worse. Creedy had lied to him, tricked him into coming here.