Raven's Shadow

Phoran knew all the guild masters of course, but this was the first time he’d set himself to be pleasant to them. After they left the Weavers’ Guild, Avar gave in to the curiosity Phoran had seen building all morning.

“You don’t need a bed hanging,” said Avar. “You could care less about silver candy dishes and tables with fluted legs. Just what are you doing?”

Phoran had come to believe Avar i

Blade tossed his head, and Phoran let his reins slide through his fingers then gradually shortened them again to keep a light hold on the stallion. “After my uncle died, who told you to befriend me?”

Avar stilled.

“It’s all right,” said Phoran, though he watched the crowded streets rather than Avar. “I just would like to know who it was.”

“My father,” said Avar. “But it wasn’t—”

“I suspect it was,” said Phoran ruefully. “I was, what, twelve? And you seventeen. It would have been an unhappy chore—and I thank you for it.”

He took a deep breath and chose to trust. “I’m trying to build some kind of a power base. The Septs will require a lot of work on my part before I know who will back me and why. But the city is as important to the stability of the Empire as the Septs. I thought it would be good to find backing here, where the Septs are too proud to look.”

“I do like you,” said Avar quietly. “I always have.”

“Ah,” said Phoran, for lack of anything better to say. How could Avar have liked him when everyone, including Phoran himself, had despised him? What had there been to like? But Avar had done his best to forward Phoran’s plans, and for that, and for so many years of duty, Phoran owed him the chance to keep his white lies.

They rode in silence to the shop of the master importer, who brought goods from all over the Empire and beyond.

“Is Guild Master Emtarig in?” asked Phoran of the boy who ma

“Not now, sir. May I help you?”

He was new, this boy, and Phoran doubted that he knew even who it was who entered the shop. Phoran was dressed in riding clothes without imperial symbols—there was nothing to say who he was except his face.

“Boy,” said Avar, gently enough, “tell your master that the Emperor awaits him in his shop.”

The boy’s eyes darted between Phoran and Avar, trying to decide who was the Emperor. At last he bowed low to Avar and scuttled through a curtained passage and, from the sound of his feet, up the stairs to the master’s private lodgings.

Phoran began sorting among the items on the laden shelves and hid his smile. Avar couldn’t help that he looked more like an emperor than Phoran did.

By careful negotiations with the other guilds, the importer’s guild members could sell items that were not made in the city. There were beautifully ta

He didn’t turn until the guild master said, “Most Gracious Emperor, you honor my shop.”

“Master Willon?” Phoran said with honest delight. He had to turn back to put the beads away. “I thought that you had retired to some gods’ forsaken province, never to return to Taela?”

“Careful, Phoran,” said Avar, who was gri

“And Leheigh is truly a gods’ forsaken place,” agreed Phoran. “What business brings you back? I hope that there is nothing wrong with Master Emtarig.”

“My son is well,” said Willon. “But I have not seen my grandchildren in too long. I thought it was time to visit. My son is out to the market to speak with the Music Guild about a drum I brought back with me. Also, I had some people to see here.”

“Good,” said Phoran. He thought of asking Willon what he knew of a man named Tier—but when he spoke, all he said was, “What would you take for three of these hangings?” He would ask Tier about Willon instead.

They bargained briskly until they reached a price both thought fair. Phoran let it drag on for longer than he might have, hoping to catch Emtarig. Willon was an old friend of his uncle’s, but Emtarig was the master guildsman now, the man Phoran needed to impress. But Emtarig did not return, so Phoran paid for the hangings and asked Willon to send the goods to the palace at his leisure.

They went to three more guild masters and bought a cobalt blue glass jar, four copper birds that sang in the wind, and an eating knife inlaid with shell before Phoran headed back to his rooms for a private evening meal with Avar. They talked, but not about anything serious.

Soon, thought Phoran, he’d tell Avar all that he’d found out about the Path—but not yet. Avar wouldn’t believe him as easily as Tier had; he wasn’t used to Phoran being anything except a jaded drunkard. Though to do him justice, Avar didn’t have the motivation to believe in evil that Tier had.

Tier returned to his room tired, bruised, and ultimately satisfied—a usual state these days. His daily sword lessons had become more of a favorite activity than the dueling had ever been.

The Passerines blossomed under his attention and some, especially Toarsen, had come around and grown more than he’d thought possible. He’d always had a knack for turning boys into fighting men, which was why Gerant offered him a job in his personal guard when there were other men, born in the Sept, who were as good or better with weapons.

There were a few that weren’t worth saving. Nehret was one, and there was one of the youngest batch who was, if Tier wasn’t mistaken, one of those very few who seemed to be born without any morals or courage at all. He’d toady to those more powerful and hurt anyone he saw as weaker. In a few years, if he wasn’t already, he’d be a rapist and murderer, and never lose a night’s sleep over it. Tier had set Toarsen and his large friend Kissel to watch over that one and protect the younger Passerines.

The door to his room was open. Some of the boys would stop in at night, so nothing struck him as odd until he saw who it was.

“Myrceria?”

Sitting on his bed, her legs folded neatly underneath her, she smiled at him brightly. “I hope that you don’t mind that I came here this evening.”

“Not at all,” he said.

She looked away. “Play something for me, please,” she said. “Something to make me laugh.”

He closed the door and sat on the foot of his bed, taking the lute off the hooks he’d had installed in the wall. He played a bit of melody on the lute, tuning automatically until it was acceptable.

“How do you do it?” she asked. “Collarn doesn’t like anyone—and they generally return his feeling with interest. The only thing he loves is music. He works so hard at it, and he is never good enough. He hated the thought that because of your magic you would play better than he, no matter what he did or how much he practiced. I saw you take his hatred and turn it to hero worship in less than an hour. Telleridge said that you can’t use your magic on us.”

“It’s not magic,” Tier said. “Collarn loves music, and that is more important to him than all the hurts the world has dealt him. I just showed him that I loved music, too.”

“What about the rest?” she asked. “The Passerines follow you around like lost puppies.”

“I like people,” said Tier with a shrug. “I don’t think most of these boys are used to dealing with someone who likes them.”

Unexpectedly she laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “The Masters are very concerned with what you have done to their control of the Passerines. Be careful.”