Selkina sat beside him, and the ilven Djerana lay on her stomach, idly kicking a leg in the air. She was watching insects fly from flower to flower and trying to see exactly what they got out of the task.
Zenepha rarely felt so contented these days, as somebody or other usually needed to see him, or wanted his signature on something, or must be chivvied into doing a thing the way it should be done.
There were always worries, but he could push those to the back of his mind for now. All these demands on his mind made relaxation more precious and he appreciated every chance to indulge. Having Selkina and Djerana with him was an added bonus.
Given how little of her he saw, Selkina remained loyal. Sylph couples never enjoyed separation, but to be kept apart when they slept in the same room was cruel, especially as his wife had no official function at all. Not even empress.
He glanced at Djerana who had made a small sound of frustration. The insects had flown away.
The ilven had been in Marka for a year and was growing fractious.
Djerana wanted to see Grayar, so she could visit her sisters, particularly Djeni, her friend and bathing partner. Zenepha knew Djerana needed a break with her sisters; there were no others of her kind here to mingle with and being an ilven alone brought its own pressure.
He empathized with that, for even other sylphs regarded him as something more than just a sylph. Except for Selkina, they all stepped warily around him. Some of the infertiles employed in the palace now regarded him almost as a god.
Nata, a sylph befriended when she lived on the streets and he was no more than an ordinary domestic slave, all but worshipped him. He had ensured her employment in the palace, so he had at least one friend here.
But every time they met, he now saw the light that appeared in her eyes. It felt uncomfortable.
Even Silmarila had Salafisa, though the baby gwerin could barely be counted as company yet. And he could not understand what happened to Silmarila whenever she saw Eleka.
The gwerin did not precisely regress, but treated Eleka with the same respect she might her own mother. It seemed as though the sylph had become a surrogate mother to the older gwerin, which was ridiculous. Eleka was barely eighteen years old, whereas Silmarila had been alive for almost three centuries. Embarrassed at first, the female sylph now took it in her stride.
Zenepha put it down to the strangeness of gwerins.
He had seen her name on documents dating from Emperor Evlander's reign. Silmarila claimed that he had been the last proper Emperor of Marka, before the troubles began. Zenepha wished he did not have the impression that she continually compared him to a man she clearly admired.
Zenepha's thoughts returned to Djerana. She would eventually return to her sisters; Grayar had already warned him that ilven always did. He would miss her when she went. For that matter, so would Nata, who served the ilven and kept her rooms clean.
Djerana had been brought here to attach herself to Marcus Vintner, but the best laid plans of even the great Grayar and Sandev could go awry. Ilven were proudly independent and Djerana found him more interesting than Marcus. She had been with him ever since.
As Olista had said more than once, it was a funny old world.
He and Selkina sat up a moment before Djerana turned her head. Guardsman Lieutenant Gior, helmet under his arm, approached and bowed.
"Your Majesty, the delegation from the Jewelers' Guild is here. And Aylos Janan seeks an audience."
A smile chased the grimace from Zenepha's face. "Thank you, Lieutenant," he said, sitting up. "I will come through now."
Affairs of state intruded again.
***
Under Oston's watchful eye, Captain Crallin scratched his signature at the bottom of the document. He carefully scattered sand over the ink and blew it away. He dripped wax before impressing his ring.
"Lieutenant Patisk is here to see you, sir," said Oston.
The man's tone held respect, but he was never servile. Hard to impress, he certainly knew his own value. He had not always been a secretary and his physique, though short, hinted at powerful strength.
"Has he got an appointment?" asked Crallin.
"I recommend you see him now."
"What?"
Oston took this as affirmation and smiled. "I'll send him in."
Moments after the secretary left Crallin's study, Lieutenant Patisk walked in, helmet tucked under an arm.
"My news is not good, sir."
Crallin steepled his fingers and leaned forward.
"Sergeant Sajalan is dead, sir. Murdered at the safe house."
"Have you got anything from his sylph?"
"She's dead too." Patisk grimaced.
"His sylph?" Crallin lifted both eyebrows, the most surprise he ever showed. Sylphs were not always kept as well as they should be and were sometimes punished in ways they ought not to be, but people usually didn't kill them. "Any thoughts?"
Patisk's dark, curly hair waved as he nodded. Crallin felt the Lieutenant should think about getting it cut. "It can only be the man or men we hunt. We found spilled ink everywhere, but no sign of Sajalan's report."
"Had he reported to you, as commanded?" Crallin hoped so, because if he had passed the information on, then he had served his purpose. A cold assessment but, in light of the man's death, the only practical one.
From the look on Patisk's face, bad news here, too.
"I told him to put it in writing, sir."
Crallin's face remained impassive and gave no hint of the turmoil inside. "You couldn't know he was about to be murdered. It's not that common an occurrence. You're not to blame for either the deaths or the missing report."
Patisk bobbed his head, but did not look mollified. Concern for underlings marked a good officer, but he must learn to hide guilt when something went wrong. Blame must be apportioned correctly. Whoever murdered Sajalan was the guilty party, not the man's commander.
"Thank you for reporting this to me. So we are no closer to learning the whereabouts of Petan and his cohorts?"
"No sir; sorry sir."
"Very well. Return to your duties. Will you send in Oston please?"
"Very good, sir." Patisk turned on his heel and left. The door had only just closed on the younger man when Crallin's secretary entered, suitably solemn.
"I assume you heard the news before me."
Oston nodded. "Of course; I had to hear it to send him in so quickly."
"We have no idea where this Sergeant Petan and his assistants might be?"
"No."
Crallin sighed and shook his head. "You know what to do."
Oston could hardly hide the pleased expression on his face. "I shall make all the necessary arrangements."
Crallin watched the door close behind Oston.
Sajalan's death did not particularly sadden him, but murdering sylphs was unforgivable. And murdering an infertile sylph disgusted all decent people. As bad as killing a child.
Crallin wanted the perpetrator caught.
The man Oston employed would arrange that.
***
Sallis ti Ath inhaled the alovak's aroma, eyes half-closed, one hand resting lightly on the sealed parchment he'd just received. It contained descriptions and a warrant.
Ti Ath savored the alovak, one of his few pleasures. Unlike alcohol, which confused the brain and slowed reactions, alovak helped keep him alert. He had so many enemies in his line of work, slowed reactions could prove fatal.
Dark eyes and the style of his name marked him as an outlander, not that anybody in Marka would notice or, if they did, care. Always plenty of outlanders in a city like Marka. Sallis hailed from Re Annan, an island that lay east of the mainland, even further away than Re Taura.
Elvallon, one of the Gifted, had cured Sallis of an illness when he was still very small, realized the youngster shared the Gift, and persuaded his parents to let him train the boy.
The Gift had been slow to manifest and Sallis doubted his ability. Elvallon had more
determination and, slowly at first but with gathering pace, dragged the power from him and set it free. Something many had cause to regret ever since.
Most with the Gift had several skills, always within certain areas. Many could project themselves ethereally or even physically. Others could heal injuries, influence people to their will, draw on impossible strength and there were even those who could shapeshift into any creature they wanted. There were other skills as well, but these were the important ones.
But Sallis ti Ath was different and his skills were unlike anything Elvallon had encountered before.
Once he had the scent of a person, he could see where they had been and follow their trail. Not by smell – he only needed to sniff at or touch something they had touched to trigger the skill – but by a niggle in the back of his mind, telling him which way they had traveled. It stopped only when he touched the person he hunted.
If that had been the only oddity, he knew Elvallon would have continued his training, instead of reacting in fear to him. It was not the only difference.
His ability to slow time terrified his tutor. Not that he slowed it down, only that he could move faster within it. A tiring skill, if useful in fights, whether with weapons or fists.
He only wished he could manipulate time for longer periods. And it usually only worked for him. He had only managed to slow time for someone else once. And the effort had almost killed him.
His teacher knew of only one other with this skill; one of the Ten.
But manipulating time was not why Elvallon decided he could no longer teach him. Nor why even the great Sandev stepped warily around him.
When Elvallon dropped his training and sent him back home, Sallis was only eleven years old.
Sallis came to Marka aged fifteen, following his father's suggestion that his skills might be put to good use catching criminals. He had lived here ever since, except for short visits home. Welcomed – eventually – by the City Guard, Sallis had served the city well for more than twenty years.
And the man now sat opposite was instrumental in ensuring Sallis ti Ath got the work he deserved.
"Are you going to drink that, or sniff it all day?" demanded Oston, who had already drained his cup.
Ti Ath smiled. "If you want more, the girls know you're with me. Just raise your hand, they'll refill you." Even so, ti Ath began to sip at the dark liquid.
"I've had enough for one day. Are you going to open that?"
Ti Ath liked to try and guess what his assignment might be. His fingers tapped the parchment. "You want me to find Sandev."
"No." Oston smiled with more than a hint of smugness. Rare for ti Ath to be wrong, so Oston always savored the times the bounty hunter could not guess his assignment. "Grayar's on that one."
"And not making a very good job of it so far." Those dark eyes still held surprise.
"Perhaps not. We want you to hunt some killers we hope are still in the city. Not innocent men, I assure you."
Ti Ath stiffened. "Very well." He broke the seal on the parchment and quickly scanned the contents. "Is there enough evidence to convict in a trial?"
"Afraid not." Oston's face showed no emotion. "Come and take a look at the place, everything is as we found it."
"That will be helpful."
Oston took a breath. "There is something else you should know."
"I'm listening."
"They killed a sylph, an infertile."
Ti Ath nodded, but did not smile. "Let's go take a look," he said. "And then, I'll sort it out for you."
***
Chapter 24
Sallis ti Ath Hunts
Sallis ti Ath looked around the small dwelling used as a safe house by the City Guard. Oston had not lied: everything, even the spilled broth, had been left exactly as found, though the spilled liquid had now dried, leaving a brown stain on the floor. Sallis glanced at the human corpse, its features battered almost beyond recognition. The second body received more attention and he knelt beside the dead sylph.
"Anybody know her name?"
Guardsmen gave him a surprised look.
"He was Sajalan, one of our sergeants," answered one.
Ti Ath waited. He already knew that. He had no interest in Sajalan; humans made their own decisions. But their sylphs had no choice but to follow.
Oston, who knew Sallis ti Ath best, eventually replied. "Meylka."
A small muscle twitched in ti Ath's cheek, the only sign of emotion raging within. He ignored the ugly bruise that marked the sylph's broken neck and instead looked into her face. Eyes closed, she looked to be asleep.
At least you are together, he reflected.
He stood and looked around the room.
"Two men," he said.
He left the death room for the other. Not a lot in here either. A bed, blankets for the sylph in one corner, a desk, oddments. He looked around the desk.
"They took the report," said Oston.
"I'm not looking for the report," retorted ti Ath. "But something that might belong to the attackers."
Oston nodded.
Ti Ath looked at the cold fireplace and smiled. A piece of cloth used to wipe someone's hands. He reached for it.
The blood belonged to Sajalan, but ti Ath got nothing from that. The dead could not be followed. But the man who had wiped his hands...
The images formed almost immediately.
Oston looked at ti Ath. "Anything?"
Ti Ath's smile widened. "Oh yes."
Oston took a couple of paces back. "Remember," he said, "we haven't got enough evidence to convict."
Ti Ath's smile faded. His dark eyes grew cold and he nodded in acknowledgment. He suppressed the civilized Sallis and hid him away.
The hunter was in charge now.
***
"It appears this man is very thorough."
Councilor Brendin Jendran closed Sajalan's report and rested his hand on the cover, pleased it did not shake. That his name appeared within terrified him.
Though unnecessary for heat, a small fire warmed Brendin's back. It burned in near silence, though a piece of wood shifted on the grate now and then. The sun had warmed Brendin's book-lined study for most of the day.
"Was very thorough," corrected Petan.
Brendin managed a smile. "Perhaps he talked to others."
"We can worry about possibilities for ever, but I don't think so. The City Guard would have called by now if he had."
Brendin felt reassured. He had spent ten years in the City Guard and knew how they operated, but that was more than a quarter of a century ago. Procedures changed and Captain Crallin had proved himself the most efficient commander of the City Guard in decades. Where had the time gone?
"Only the one copy exists?"
"Sajalan was still writing it when we called."
Brendin nodded again. "I trust there were no witnesses?"
"None we left alive."
Brendin's dark blue eyes were neutral. "I won't ask."
Petan showed his teeth. "Let's just say my sylph killing skills have improved."
"I do hope so."
Petan nodded. "If you're finished?"
"Of course."
After the Eldovan had left, Brendin smiled. There had been no visit from Nicolfer or Dervra in some time. That meant they were pleased with him. He had done well. Soon, the Eldovans would return and he might finally have the chance to be Supreme Councilor.
He turned and dropped Sajalan's report onto the fire. The flames from the burning report reflected in his eyes. He was safe.
***
Silmarila-y-Marka sat alone in her small study, an annex to the bedchamber. She had spent a couple of months rebuilding her library, struggling to reclaim volumes rightfully hers from recalcitrant librarians.
She glanced out of the window, pleased her rooms were on the shady side of the palace in summer. Though a fire always burned here in winter, the stone walls kept the heat down and ensured her rooms were delightfully cool in summer. Good for t
he books, too.
She wondered about her former companions and tutors, Marasil and Samrita. Their rooms stood empty, silent witnesses to her solitude.
Such was a gwerin's lot.
Envied by humans for her intelligence, Silmarila had spent most of her life alone, surrounded by people. Though she had been tolerated in her small village for her wisdom and knowledge, most people eventually tired of a gwerin who never aged and never seemed to die.
That was untrue. Middle-aged – some would say past middle-aged – she would die one day.
Sylphs went in awe of gwerins and respected, rather than envied, them. Among wild sylphs, gwerins usually achieved great rank. Unlike other infertiles, they were not excluded from important posts. The best piece of wisdom wild sylphs possessed was their attitude that each must do what she could do best for the good of all. Blind prejudice always caused more problems in the long run.
Sylphs in the palace were more than just respectful of her. Those who cleaned were appalled that Silmarila preferred to clean her own room; sylphs did not always treat books with proper respect. Illiteracy was a terrible curse.
Her thoughts turned to her alliance with the Supreme Councilor. She understood the reasons why Zenepha had become Emperor. A caretaker. Zenepha held the Throne not for who he was, but for who he was not.
Eventually, he must step down. Silmarila grimaced. There were those – particularly from the faction that supported the late Branad Vintner's claim – who wanted Zenepha to remain Emperor.
But Silmarila knew that was impossible.
No matter how personable the sylph, he could not remain on the Throne. Humans must be ruled by humans; they would never accept rule from a non-human permanently.
But she could not choose who sat on the Throne, only serve whoever did.
She looked again at her books. Tomes on history, law, politics, philosophy, natural history. Every scrap of knowledge she could find about the first civilization. So much had been lost.
A book about the Key, which had terrified her the first time she read it, almost three hundred years ago. That humans could control so much, and harness such great power for their own ends, humbled her. Not that individual humans were usually spectacularly intelligent, but they were very good at building on knowledge gained by previous generations.
Unless they destroyed their civilization.
She knew that creatures capable of such creativity must have a reverse side. Creation and destruction were ever lovers, who had danced together for eternity, all part of the cosmic balance. Or so she had been taught.