Livion sees Prieve below. Considering how he’s been treated today, he wishes Hanosh retained some of its pre-League sensibilities. Even the little things might help, however much breath they waste. He runs to his door and calls down the corridor, “Felic.”
The young man returns, wearing a light cloak and short-billed cap. “Yes?”
“Thank you,” Livion says.
Felic gives a little bow, touches the bad side of his face, and leaves.
In the Shield’s offices, Chelson led the party into the small hall and shut the door on the underlings so slowly Livion thought he was savoring the latch’s click. “I don’t know what you’re playing at,” he said, “or whom you’re playing for, but the stakes are too high for you to sit at this table anymore. Here’s what you’re going to do.” Herse stood behind him as Chelson jabbed his finger at Livion’s chest to make each point. “You will see if this dragon nonsense is true. You will employ every resource at our disposal. And you will fail. In a few days you’ll say that Ayden must have been behind the attack. You’ll admit that delaying our response put the city at risk. You’ll request an extended leave. The company will oblige.” As an afterthought Chelson said, “And you will return those boots.”
“What if I find out Omer was right?” Livion said.
“You won’t,” Herse said, putting a hand on Livion’s shoulder. “Ayden attacked us. The city will believe us. Why can’t you? Do you trust a trade rider more than us? A rat, I bet, who wanted a full purse for his information and promptly vanished?”
Livion can still feel Herse’s hand beside his neck as clocks around the Harbor chime nineteen: three quick sets of five and a four. At his office window, Livion watches men and women head home or to the Round, shaking off the day, while on the piers a boy traipses from crane to crane, lighting the lantern by each as it loads and unloads. No movement comes from the gibbets on the bay.
Someone coughs behind him and he jumps. His servant girl is standing there. The letter in her hand bears a seal of the bright yellow wax Tristaban currently favors.
“She’s spoken with her father?” Livion says. The girl nods. Livion points to his desk, she lays it on a clear space, and he unfolds it. He reads the note without surprise and looks at the couch in his office.
His father-in-law gave him the couch when he was made a junior and installed in this office. “It looks comfortable,” Chelson had said, “but it’s not. You don’t want a guest to be easy. That gives you an edge.”
“What if I want a guest to be comfortable?” Livion had asked.
“Take him to the Round.” His father-in-law had patted the still-empty desk and said, “Don’t you get too comfortable either.”
Livion says to the girl, “Let me write a reply.”
“One isn’t required,” she says.
Livion flicks his quill across some papers. “Then tell Trist ‘Good night.’ ”
The girl leaves. Livion returns to the window.
After Livion left the Shield’s offices, practically sliding down the stairs, Ject met him in the tower’s entry hall with his personal guard.
“You did well to speak up,” Ject said, “however wild your story. Two dragons! And Chalfin. I remember him. Nasty business. You’re going to the Castle?” Livion nodded. “Good. I’ll go with you. We can compare notes.”
A clanking on the stairs lifted their eyes to Herse coming down.
“What notes do you have to compare?” Herse says. “For one so concerned about jurisdiction, the battlefield is as far from yours as Ayden.”
“That it was a battlefield remains in doubt,” Ject said, “but the battle, thanks to your stunt, is in our streets.”
“If you’re looking for advice on combat—”
“I’m looking for peace.”
“So am I,” Herse said, “but I’m willing to fight for it.” Herse pushed past them and left the tower.
“I’ll find Omer,” Ject said. “And we will prove him wrong.”
Ject didn’t say anything else on the way downhill, tapping the pocket with his paper instead, until they found the street blocked by a group of tanners. They were arguing loudly about the best way to give Ayden its due. They reeked of urine. One said to Livion, “Hey, hero, if you don’t want to fight, why don’t you leave?”
“Ravis,” Ject said, pointing at him. Ravis pinned the tanner’s arms and marched him to the general. Ject said, “You’re Strig.”
The man said nothing.
“Of course you are,” Ject said. “I can’t forget a face, and how could anyone forget yours, however much you’ve damaged it? What was it, ten years ago, you thought you could outrun me? No, eleven. How’s your sister?”
Strig continued to say nothing.
“I hear of her from time to time,” Ject said. “Nice girl. Hard worker. It’d be a shame if she was brought in because of something you did.”
This got the man’s attention.
Ject opened his hand. Ravis released Strig. “When you see her, let her know I’m thinking of her,” Ject said.