Duke Vedris of Emelan will not be complacent if his great-niece is forced to act against her will. There is open speculation in Emelan that he intends, as is his right under that country’s laws of succession, to name Lady Sandrilene as his heir over the sons of his own blood. It is believed that his older son Gospard will acquiesce, though his younger son Franzen will not. There is no confirmation of these rumors; no changes of the duke’s will have been filed. If His Grace learned she had been imperiled in any way, he poses no military threat, but he is a major threat to southern trade. With his allies there he could well cut off the trade in gems and spices. Her Imperial Majesty also has a number of bank accounts in Emelan that would be at risk.
Lady Sandrilene is an extraordinary girl. Although she possesses her mage’s credential, she does not flaunt it. She is aware of her lineage and quick to assert the rights of her noble birth if she feels that she is not respected. The lady has a temper. She has engaged in flirtations in the last year—one with a temple novice, two with the sons of noble families in Emelan—but they have been flirtations only. The lady does not appear to be interested in marriage at present.
The empress set the papers aside, tapping her chin with a perfectly manicured finger. “Why couldn’t the richest heiress in all Namorn have been a noble little sheep?” she asked the empty air.
She took up the next portrait: that of Briar Moss, as he called himself. Ah, yes, she thought, amused. She had seen the way his eyes lingered on her curves once he had relaxed a little. The young gallant. More importantly to me, the green mage. He may be only eighteen, but he is definitely male, and I can handle men. And that shakkan on one of the packhorses—that must be the one the spies wrote about, the one he began with. What a beauty it is! If that’s a sample of his art, then I must entice him into my service. A talented young man, coming from poverty as my reports say he does ... I will pay him a fortune to tend my shakkans and oversee my other gardens. He’ll wonder how he could ever have lived anywhere else, by the time I’ve done with him!
She set aside the notes about Briar. She knew what she needed to do as far as he was concerned.
The third portrait was of Daja Kisubo, the dark-skinned young woman who was clothed Trader-style. Cast out from the Traders, yet carrying a staff and dressing like one, Berenene thought. And they’ve made her wealthy. Not all outcasts are so fortunate. I wonder if that metal piece on her hand hurts? I know she makes incredible things with the excess from it: a living metal leg; gloves that enable someone to handle fire without getting burned; a living metal tree that blooms copper roses.
She glanced at her notes.
Daja Kisubo has excellent connections in Namorn. She has close ties to House Bancanor in Kugisko, and thus to the Goldsmiths’ Guild and its network of banks throughout the empire. From the work that she and her teacher did while in Kugisko, she has alliances with the Mages’ Society of Kugisko and the present head of the Smiths’ Guild for all Namorn. Politically, at least, she is as powerful as Lady Sandrilene in Namorn.
These mages! sniffed Berenene as she set the notes aside. Isn’t it bad enough they support one another, without meddling in non-mage politics? The allegiance of the Kisubo girl would gain me friends among the smiths and the mages, which is always useful ... The Traders might not involve themselves in my politics on her behalf, but the living metal trade would come here. Then the taxes on the sales of those living metal toys would enter my coffers, not Vedris’s.
She was an outcast once. Outcasts always respond well to offers of position, if I can find no better inducement for our young smith.
The last portrait was that of the redhead, Trisana Chandler, the fourth member of Sandry’s little family. Berenene drummed her fingers on her desk, frowning slightly. Trisana was the unknown quantity among Sandry’s companions. Some of the stories about this girl that her spies had sent on were simply outlandish. Still, there was that glass dragon—made by an imperial subject and the nephew of the present Imperial Glassmaker. The boy had been promising before an accident on the shores of the Syth had nearly killed him. They had sent him away, believing he was useless to the family. Berenene remembered it well.
Then word came, from so far south it’s barely on my maps, that his skill is better than ever—he’s making glass that lives—and this girl Trisana had something to do with it, Berenene thought. A merchant’s daughter, allied to my cousin and these other two, the student of the great mage Niklaren Goldeye. A loner. A puzzle. The notes read:
What is provable about her is that she is a weather witch of some skill, can manipulate winds, and has been able to earn sums by calling rain, finding water for farmers and towns, and supplying winds to ships. She invests what she earns, has added to her savings, and is respected by her bankers in Emelan.
Other tales are unconfirmed: Emelan—she destroyed an entire pirate fleet with lightning. Tharios—she can scry the wind. Ninver, Capchen—she caused it to hail indoors, created windstorms in her parents’ home, made her father sink into the ground when he punished her. Winding Circle temple—she may have put a temporary halt to the change of tides.
Berenene smiled and closed the folder. It must have embarrassed my agents so, to pass on such wild tales. But they did it, which is what they were ordered to do. I will make sure they are duly rewarded. Whatever else, the presence of a girl who can cause such rumors would give my enemies something to think about.
The empress nodded. The notes had confirmed the conclusion she had already reached: Each of these four young people would be an asset to the empire, and well worth any trouble it might take to convince them to stay. My court and I will put out our best efforts, Berenene told herself, closing the folder and locking it once more. They’ll be so enraptured with us and with Dancruan, they won’t even remember there is an Emelan.
4
It’s one thing to know Sandry is wealthy, thought Daja when the gates opened and guards bowed them into the courtyard of the Landreg town house. I’m wealthy, after all. So’s Briar, for all he keeps it to himself. And it’s even one thing to know Sandry’s a noble, a clehame. I always thought I could handle it. Now—I’m not sure I can handle this.
“This” was the sprawling marble pile that was the Landreg home in the capital. Two-thirds of it wasn’t even in use at present. Sandry’s mother’s family—whose title passed to daughters and sons—had not lived there in years; her cousin Ambros’s family seldom stayed there. “This” was also what looked to Daja like a small army of servants and men-at-arms, tricked out in matching liveries, lined up on the house’s steps and in the courtyard, bowing or curtsying as Sandry walked past. “This” was gilding on the edges of the furniture inside; hardwood floors polished like glass; tapestries glinting with gold and silver thread; branches of candles hung with crystal drops. Even the rooms prepared for the other mages seemed like suites for royalty, with heavy brocade drapes and plush, intricate carpets. The baths assigned for the use of Sandry and her guests were luxurious works of porcelain, marble, and crystal.