I’m no hero, Livion thinks. But could I be one?
Omer has no idea who owns the men surrounding him, but that’s irrelevant. He lowers his shoulder and charges. If he can get out of the alley, he’ll have some room to fight. Red Eye gets lower than him, though, which enables the two men behind the rider to knock Omer over Red Eye. Omer knees Red Eye in his good eye, crawls free, and he gives Crooked Nose a heel to the mouth. He stands, but they get his ankles and, as he takes a step to run, they jerk him flat as a rug. His tooth cracks when his jaw hits a cobblestone.
Omer tries to climb the stones. He can’t get a grip. A blade dives into his back. A boot plows into his ear. The Harbor becomes foggy. His limbs get heavy. Red Eye says, “Flip him. Let him watch.” He’s rolled over, Red Eye draws his hatchet, and the hacking begins.
5
* * *
Livion concludes his statement to the Council by addressing Chelson directly: “I had no chance to tell you earlier. I came straight here after hearing the news. Out of respect for Mulcent’s and Sumpt’s estates, I wouldn’t have said anything to the Council before they were informed unless it was necessary.”
“The company appreciates their contributions and regrets their loss,” Chelson says.
Ject says, “Solet was hunting dragons in the area, which does make the junior’s story more likely than the general’s.”
“What I find likely,” Herse says, “is someone taking a chance to relive old glories.”
“You would,” Ject says.
Livion’s feet swim in his boots, but he can’t back down. “My trade rider’s information has always been reliable.”
“I would like to test that assertion,” Eles says. “Is this Omer still in the city?”
“I know this rider,” Ject says, “and if he is, he’ll be at the Tripple in the Harbor. I’ll have him collected.”
Ject motions to Ravis, first guard of his personal retinue, whose bronze helmets and muscle cuirasses distinguish them from regular guards’ plain leather caps and composite cuirasses. The man tasks two other guards to join him, and they leave to find the trade rider.
“What is certain at least,” Eles says, turning to Chelson, “is that something did happen to your wolf pack. Always thought that was a foolish idea. Of course, if this was an act of war instead of misadventure, your insurers may reimburse you.” Chelson’s face doesn’t move an inch.
“And the prison,” Ject says, “may forgive the loss of its assets. I’ll also have the families and associates of the Shield’s rowers contacted to see if any have returned home. The Shield might do the same with its sailors. Another survivor would provide valuable testimony.”
Chelson waves his hand abstractly. Livion says, “I’ll have that done.”
“Until the Shield’s informant is produced,” Eles says, “I move to postpone this portion of Council and, after a quarter-hour break, proceed with the public pleading.” Blue Island seconds. Eles raises his ivory gavel, carved in the shape of an hourglass. “I would have moved that we keep this situation quiet lest the Shield suffer financially from uncertainty and baseless speculation, but, once opened, that door can’t be closed, can it?” He sounds his gavel. The chamber empties as if on fire.
If Livion’s created financial problems for the Shield, and that’s likely, Eles will be the first to offer solutions. There’s a reason his company is called Hanosh Consolidated.
At dusk Livion stands at his office window, wishing Solet or Tuse would row in and settle matters.
The Council was not pleased that Omer couldn’t be found, especially after the first hour of pleading was taken up by complaints regarding the war with Ayden, and the second, as rumors spread, by those regarding the war with Ayden and their dragons.
Eles’s fury had hardly matched that of Chelson. After Council, Livion followed him and Herse to the Shield’s offices in the Blue Tower. They were trailed by various clerks and assistants, the mood funereal, the only sound the paradiddle of their footfalls on the iron stairs. One girl, Kathi, he thinks, gave him a look he thought was encouraging until she ducked her eyes and revealed it as pitying. She knew this march was his drumming out.
Felic knocks on his doorframe. “Do you need me?”
“Still no word of Omer?” Livion says.
“No,” Felic says. “I went to the Tripple myself. He had a drink, he met a man, and he left, but he never took a room. He hasn’t returned, nor has he been seen at his other haunts. We’ve promised perks to a few dozen people to let us know if they see him.”
“Good,” Livion says.
“Should I send to the Round for some dinner?” Felic says.
“No,” Livion says. Felic slips away.