The Betrayed (27 page)

Armin smiled. “Your effort is highly appreciated.”

Ian returned and placed a folded note before the governor. Elliot smiled. “It appears that Shipwright Boune had other investors besides you.”

The investigator nodded. “That’s understandable.”

“We also believe that Shipwright Boune conducted business through several banks and not just our own. Therefore, I cannot guarantee that the information you will receive here is complete. But the balance is positive, and there are no known debts in our records.”

Armin leaned back. “That’s reassuring. Of course, my accountant will have to check all of the records in detail, but the matter of Shipwright Boune’s death worries me.”

“Of course,” Elliot agreed, encouraged. He felt there could be a nice juicy deal after all.

Armin looked at his wife. “There’s one last thing.”

The governor kept his smile pasted. “Yes, Lord Norssin.”

“That figure stands apart from the rest,” Armin said, pointing at the solitary line again. “I would appreciate if you could tell me who financed Shipwright Boune on that particular occasion?”

Elliot blinked with shock. “I…I believe I cannot divulge that information.”

Armin cracked his knuckles in feigned irritation. “You see, round that particular time, I lost a very important business deal. I would be most interested to know who my rivals are. Now, I’m aware that you must preserve the privacy of your other customers.”

Galina bent and reached for the small bag Armin had brought with him. Unconsciously, the governor straightened in his chair, craning his neck ever so slightly. Armin’s wife placed the bag on the desk.

“Inside this bag is a letter of credit worth twenty thousand gold marks. A payment of goodwill that should guarantee a fruitful business relationship.”

Elliot did not touch the bag, but his mind was racing. Armin was well aware that even the most decadent popinjay in Eybalen could not easily shrug off such a sum.

The governor clicked his tongue. It was his turn to attempt blackmail. “How can Bank Trust serve your interests?”

Armin looked the governor in the eye without blinking. “My analysts estimate that the demand for rare spices and potions is absolutely staggering. My intentions are to establish a trading post in Eybalen, with exclusive distribution rights for at least a decade.”

“How would you choose the distributor?”

“Most likely a public tender, but with worthy partners and a strong business relationship established beforehand, it might not be necessary.”

Elliot’s blank expression was ridiculous. “What are your demands in return for your initial deposit?”

Armin rolled his eyes, as if recalling a careful calculation. “Thirty to one, with seventeen marks per thousand annual interest, with fifty marks per thousand share after the third year of distribution.”

Elliot whistled without a sound. “Three million marks is a considerable sum even for some of the oldest and biggest guilds in the city.”

“With the expected yearly circulation of more than two, I believe the initial investment should not matter much.”

That was it. Armin had spent the best part of his cunning both as an investigator and a rich Sirtai. Now, he had to hope that the bank governor would be greedy enough to forfeit the traditions of his bank and tell Armin what he needed to know.

Elliot was not writing, but he was calculating. His eyes flitted rapidly as he crunched numbers. Armin knew that his little show would not survive the scrutiny of a team of seasoned accountants, but he did not need it to. He had no intention of elongating the short and mythical life of Ronald Wan’der Norssin. It was an outrage and a diplomatic scandal, but those things should never bother a real investigator.

The governor sighed. His hand reached and drew the bag closer. Armin’s price for a name. People got killed for far, far less.

“Please, I must insist, this conversation never took place.”

Armin nodded. “You have my word.”

Elliot handed the folded note. Armin took it and read.

It said:
Davar.

CHAPTER 24

A
yrton was not sure why Matriarch Alda had decided to heed his advice in the end. For some reason, she must have realized going back to Talmath would be suicide. He did not believe she had really spoken to her goddess, but he was grateful for it nonetheless.

He hated the patriarchs from Talmath, though. He was shocked by their blatant hypocrisy, by their disregard for the lives of the people who trusted them. The patriarchs were supposed to defend the people from the perils of the world; they were not supposed to hurl their souls into the Abyss.

Their motivation for lying and deceiving the people still eluded him. Twisting reality to boost morale was a known trick. Denying reality was suicide. The Caytoreans were just too strong.

It was obvious that fewer people would answer the Call if they knew the Cause was lost. But what were the patriarchs trying to achieve by sacrificing these people? Stall the enemy? Hurt him as much as possible before the imminent defeat?

Whatever the reason, the patriarchs did not relent. They went into villages, blessed people and held speeches, rousing the young and the foolish to a doomed campaign. The convoy would march on west, while masses of badly armed peasants walked into the jaws of death in the east.

Small groups of fighters passed them all the time, every day. Bad news of the war had not yet reached the western parts of the Territories. People were buoyant and defiant. No one spoke of the tens of thousands of refugees and the countless dead left to rot in towns and villages. Hordes of soldiers of the gods, many of them Outsiders, rode to fight the invaders, unaware of the horrible fate that had met so many of their comrades.

Ayrton was convinced that within days defections would begin, turning to outright mutinies and brigandage. Unfortunately, too many Outsiders had not really given up their former ways, mainly pushed them away, out of sight.

But he would not let that happen to him. He had sworn.

His little army was down to only about a thousand people, soldier and civilian alike. Most of the refugees had melted away. Those who remained followed his lead because they had nothing else left in their miserable lives. Yet others followed only because someone led and made the decision for them. And there was a group Ayrton did not like, a group of men with avaricious looks on their savage faces, who respected only fear. His domain over them was flimsy at best. He knew he could not control them indefinitely. Sooner or later, they were going to challenge his authority, and then blood would be shed.

Sheep and wolves, all following a fool.

His self-spelled portent of doom came two days later. A band of Outsiders tried to rape Matriarch Alda.

Ayrton awoke to a torrent of screams and shouting. He ran out of his tent into a rainy night, naked, with a sword in hand. Several Outsiders lay dead or dying, their blood mingling with rainwater. Sloshing through mud, he fought his way toward the epicenter of calamity.

Torches sputtered, trying to survive the storm, making the weakest of lights by which he navigated his way around wagons and tents. Not far from where he slept, a group of patriarchs had taken shelter under the thick branches of an old chestnut that provided some lee from the elements.

Now, the ancient tree was a witness to a gruesome fight, unarmed patriarchs and several soldiers fighting a horde of monsters intent on rape. Matriarch Alda was in their hands, and they struggled with the choice between stripping her clothes off and fending off men who opposed them.

Unseen by either group, Ayrton hopped toward the carnage and hid behind a tree. They had camped at the outskirts of a forest, where they had hoped to avoid the worst of the bad weather that had haunted them for the last several days.

Matriarch Alda was screaming madly. People were cursing and growling like animals. Swords rang. Ayrton waited for a few moments, breathing hard and deeply, trying to get his bearings. The illumination was horribly weak. He could guess shapes at best. Still, he did not hesitate when he rushed from his hiding.

The first man never saw him coming, only felt a cold length of wet steel through his neck. Ayrton did not waste time talking, negotiating, or merely wounding. He cut through flesh and bone as efficiently as possible. The second man collapsed.

The remaining three noticed him, let go of the matriarch, and charged together. He spun and slid in the mud, collided into the chestnut with his back and shoulder, cursed silently as blades rained about him. He was winded within seconds.

But his opponents were drunk. Their movements were sluggish, inaccurate. The third man dropped dead, clutching his guts. The remaining two yielded.

Suddenly, the enraged and shocked crowd of onlookers became a mob of rabid animals. Picking up dead branches and stones, they attacked the two Outsiders. Ayrton found himself defending the very men he had tried to kill only a moment earlier.

“No! No! Stop. They must live so we can hang them before all!” A fist punched him, tearing open his upper lip. A stone bounced off his shoulder. “The justice of the gods must be served.” He stood over the two cowering drunkards, sword poised to strike if need be. The crowd lost its momentum. Ayrton almost dropped to his knees, exhausted.

Matriarch Alda rose and started wiping clots of mud off her shredded dress. It was a symbolic gesture. She looked him in the eye. “Thank you, soldier. You are a true servant of the gods.”

Ayrton nodded mutely, too tired to speak anymore.

In the morning, they hanged the two offenders. There was a shortage of rope in their camp, so they used a chain, hanging the matriarch’s would-be rapists in turns. All of the patriarchs, including the survivors from Talmath, presided over the executions. They preached for a long time on morality and compassion. Ayrton listened to the empty words with growing anger. The people, who had abandoned an entire city and left its souls to die, dared tell others about morality and compassion. After the sermon came a series of prayers.

While praying, Ayrton let his eyes survey the Outsiders, watching the lips that moved and lips that stayed still. He could see derision and disbelief written plainly on some of those grubby, unshaven faces.

Ayrton wondered if his life were not an illusion. If the Territories were not an illusion. He had honestly believed that people deserved a second chance, believed that there was always something good in the world, no matter what evil things people did. He was the living proof. He had come to the holy land and asked for forgiveness. And they had given it to him freely, unreservedly, a gift of life.

When they had called him to join the Cause, he had ridden gladly, honored to be able to give back some of the love they had shown him.

Now, he could see that it had all been a farce, a farce that worked while everyone had their bellies filled and a roof above their heads. But the moment they faced a test of faith, they shed their hides of pretense, and vile, foul, selfish beings rose from within.

Ayrton did not presume to be able to understand the grand schemes of the gods. The patriarchs and matriarchs would do everything to see the Safe Territories survive this ugly war. But the price was too high. They sent people to their deaths without blinking. Worst of all, they gave people false hope, the most horrible kind of treason.