Shadows Return

CHAPTER 12 Bargains in Flesh

CHARIS YHAKOBIN WAS not a man who took any particular pleasure in disciplining his slaves. He usually left that to someone else, but this young Alec was quite a special case, and he’d already decided that no one else was going to lay a hand on him.

He climbed the stairs to the main level of the villa and crossed the central courtyard to find the Virésse khirnari waiting for him at a small wine table by the fountain pool. Ulan í Sathil was still wrapped in his cloak against the evening chill, with the hood thrown back. His white hair glimmered in the torchlight.

“You are satisfied with our bargain, Charis?” the khirnari asked in that cold, level voice of his.

“Most satisfied, though it’s a pity the boy is a half-blood.”

“But you can still make use of him?”

“Oh yes.”

“And the other one?”

“You don’t use his name, I notice. I haven’t heard you speak of him directly once.”

“He has no name. He is an outcast, and no concern of mine. I trust he will be dealt with appropriately?”

“I can assure you, he will never see Aurënen again, my friend.”

“Yes, but will he suffer?”

“I have no doubt that he will, with his new master. And now, for my part.” He took a leather folder of documents from inside his coat and laid it before Ulan. “Emancipation papers for forty-two Virésse and Golinil clan members. They will be on your ship by dawn.”

Ulan paused, hand poised over the folder. “You promised me forty-four.”

“Two have since died. Their remains have been prepared. You can still return them to their families. I do apologize, but it happened before I could purchase them.”

“Ransom,” Ulan corrected. “They are ransomed. We ’faie do not involve ourselves in the buying and selling of flesh.”

“Of course. I misspoke. Those whom I ransomed, as my part of our bargain, then.”

“Thank you. And as to the other part of our bargain?”

“As soon as a rhekaro is perfected-if indeed it is possible-and properly assessed, one will be sent to you.”

Ulan raised an eyebrow at that. “If? This is the first time you’ve shown any doubt.”

“I hadn’t seen him, much less tested him when we struck our bargain,” Yhakobin reminded him. “I had only your word that he was of that bloodline at all. And the boy is half human, after all, and that’s strong in him. I can only do so much.” He paused and sipped his wine. “Tell me, Khirnari, are there truly none in Aurënen who know of this blood property? That seems so odd, given the length of ’faie memory.”

“I knew nothing of it until you contacted me about all this. And if I knew nothing, then it is highly unlikely that anyone else does, with the possible exception of the rhui’auros at Sarikali.”

“Ah, yes. Your mysterious, mystic priests. Are they the keepers of your people’s secrets?”

The khirnari answered that with an enigmatic smile. “There are many stories about why Hâzadriël gathered her followers and fled north, though no one knows the truth, or so the rhui’auros would tell you. But some say that she was gifted with a vision by the bash’wai spirits who inhabit Sarikali.”

“Mystics and ghosts! My, but you are a colorful people.” Ulan’s smile disappeared. He did not move, but the air around Yhakobin suddenly felt cold and dense. “I meant that as a compliment, of course.”

“Of course.” Ulan kept him pinned with his sharp-eyed gaze a moment longer, then looked down at his wine.

Yhakobin relaxed slightly as the atmosphere returned to normal. “So, I will endeavor to make the rhekaro with what I have to work with, and then we shall see.”

“I should like to see your texts, which speak of this magic.”

Yhakobin nearly refused; no alchemist shared his precious store of knowledge, and most certainly not with an outsider. And he did already have the young Hâzadriëlfaie in hand. All the same, Ulan í Sathil was too powerful a man to trifle with. “Very well. Please wait here while I retrieve it.”

As he unlocked his workshop door, he glanced back suspiciously, but Ulan still sat at the wine table, gazing at the fountain or statuary now. After that little demonstration of displeasure, however, Yhakobin wondered if the man was somehow coercing him into revealing his precious texts. Safely inside, he went to one of the tables and placed a bit of sulfur in a crucible and poured a few drops of several tinctures over it, then drew the requisite symbols on the table. He lit the sulfur with a coal from the forge and watched the flame, which flared up yellow, then turned a deep green; Ulan was exercising no magic on him, or at least none he could identify.

Satisfied, he went to the small pavilion at the far end of the room and crawled inside to open the large casket hidden there. The lock opened at his touch, and he took out the lesser tome and carried it back to Ulan. He doubted the man, for all his apparent wisdom, knew how to read the Arcana.

“Here, Khirnari,” he said, opening the book to a chapter marked with a black ribbon. Ulan took the tome and slowly followed the tiny characters with a finger, nodding slowly. “According to this, the longevity properties are not predictable.”

“Most likely because of the differing distillation processes employed by the few alchemists who practiced this science. Each lineage has its own methodology, rather like the inherited magic of your people. And no one in those ancient times ever thought to use a half-blood, when the pure strains were so readily had.”

“The history of your people’s depredations on our shores is nothing to speak of lightly,” Ulan said quietly, and the air grew a little heavy again.

“Of course not, Khirnari. I only meant to give you an explanation of why my endeavors in this matter may be unpredictable. But rest assured, the purification and decoction of blood strains is a great strength of mine. And at the risk of seeming arrogant, I daresay you will not find another alchemist who is more adept at the art than I.”

“I do not doubt your expertise, Charis. If the process produces the elixir I hope for, then I will be pleased, of course. If it does something else, then you will of course share that knowledge.”

“Of course. And regardless of the outcome, I will continue to keep our bargain. Any member of the Virésse clan I find in the markets or households of Plenimar will be purchased-ransomed, that is-and returned to you.”

“And your traders will continue to have favored status in my ports, and in my fai’thast.”

Ulan rose and bowed to him. “Good night, my friend, and good luck.”

“Won’t you stay the night with us, Khirnari? My wife has prepared a banquet in your honor.”

The old Aurënfaie’s hesitation would not have been apparent to a man less astute than Charis Yhakobin. “I will be most honored to dine with you, but these old bones of mine will sleep better rocked by the tide in an Aurënfaie berth. One of the many prices of age, my friend. One becomes overly attached to the familiar in small things.”

“And great ones, as well.” It was no secret that the pact between Skala and the Gedre khirnari had hurt more than Virésse’s trade and shipping interests. It had hurt their pride. What Seregil í Korit’s role had been in that was unclear, but Yhakobin had been more than happy to benefit from the rift. If not for Ulan’s animosity toward the young Bôkthersan, Yhakobin might never have gained the prize he now had safely locked away in his cellar.

He let his gaze wander to the dark, slender figure standing at a respectful distance in the shadows and gave a slight nod to show that all was well. Yhakobin was a wealthy man, and a powerful one, but merciful when it suited him. He could afford to be generous now, especially to one who had brought him his heart’s greatest desire.